


Parasols and Pleasantries

by try_reset (technorat)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - Vampires and Werewolves, M/M, Victorian Science Fiction, background finn/poe - Freeform, vampire!Kylo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2018-08-18 18:37:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8171804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technorat/pseuds/try_reset
Summary: Armitage Hux labors under a great many social tribulations: a red haired bastard, who is declared both unfit to serve the British army and London's werewolf pack. To top it all off, he is attacked by homicidal mechanical ladybugs, indicating, as only ladybugs can, the fact that something is amiss in London and that danger, as always, lurks.When a plot threatening the Queen is revealed, both the barely human Mister Hux and the vampire Lord Ren are on the case, following a trail that leads them both deep into the secrets of supernatural society.





	1. Crisis, Crumpets, and Cambric Tea—An Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is somewhat of a Halloween fic that ended up longer than I had originally anticipated. This is based very heavily on Gail Carriger's Parasol Protectorate, Finishing School, and Custard Protocol series
> 
> No major warnings for this chapter. Some discussion of injuries, but nothing graphic.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

His leg, still weak, ached as did the rest of him, wrapped in layers of clean gauze and hidden by clothing. His time spent in the bacta tank—though double as long as he should have been permitted—had patched up his wounds _mostly_ but it did not complete the job entirely.

He's tired, feeling as if hadn't slept. And truly, he did not get much sleep.

From lower cavalier status to high cavalier status while serving the Crown back to the lower cavalier status again, Hux had led a busy life.

And soon enough, his cavalier status with the London pack might be revoked in its entirety!

So much to think about...

But it does not matter—not when there is business to attend to.

The howling had died down, just when the sun began to rise. Surely, soon the wolves will revert to their human forms. Surely, soon he, Mitaka, and Finn will be charged with the task of opening up the silver cages and letting the pack go free.

He stands—bones weary, head light from lack of sleep—and sets about dressing himself in something other than a nightshirt.

He fishes out an undershirt, pulling it over his head of unruly hair, fighting off the chill that seeks to sink its way into his bones; and how the chill had seeped into his newly healed bones! His neatly pressed shirt and trousers have already been laid out on his bed, so that he would not have to hurry about in the morning.

Armitage Hux may be called many things, but he may never be called _unprepared._

He pulls on the stark white shirt, nearly as pale and creamy as his own skin—if one was kind enough to ignore the pinky-red fresh patches—buttoning it up to his chin. His hands fidget, coming up to adjust the ruffles that surround the minuscule buttons.

His pantaloons are nothing special. Quickly, he pulls his trousers over, buttoning them and belting them in place, using the notches that he had cut himself into the leather of the material, small enough for his thin form.

Hux straightens, looking at himself.

At the near purple bruising underneath his eyes.

At the tangles that crown the top of his head.

At how his body betrayed him, putting less weight on his leg.

He sighs, lowering his eyes, golden red eyelashes shielding him from what he sees before him. He turns away from the mirror, shrugging on both his royal purple vest and heavy greatcoat.

The hair, ever unruly, has settled, somewhat, falling gently across his forehead.

It will do.

It must.

He bends, retrieving his shoes from underneath the bed and steps into them, tying them quickly.

He leaves his bedroom, descending the staircase, three levels down.

Finn is already awake, gulping down a precariously hot cup of tea. He looks up at the noise and nods. “Mr Hux,” he says, nodding his respects. Finn had both taken to him and been frightened of him. It isn't up to Hux to decide which was the correct response.

“Good morning. Nice to see you up and about, Mr Finn. Tell me, have you seen Mr Mitaka just yet?”

“No. He's probably still sleeping. He's the closest to the cages, poor guy.”

Hux's eyes soften. “Ah.” He sits down at the kitchen counter, right beside Finn. He reaches for the pot of tea, pouring himself a cup. “How dreadful it is to sleep at night during the moon madness... I had nearly forgotten what it's like.”

“Are you saying you haven't slept?” Finn teases.

Hux's lips quirk up in an almost smile. But he won't allow it. “I am not saying a thing.” He stirs in a spoonful of sugar into his tea, then, eyes shifting to the side, he stirs in another.

“Alpha wants to see you,” Finn says, just after Hux has taken a sip.

His brow rises. His heart skips a beat, thudding loudly, and painfully, against a rib. “When has she asked for me?”

Finn ducks his head, a strained smile lighting up his face. “Oh, you know, about an hour ago?”  
Hux sighs, stands, wish he'd been told sooner. “Very well,” he says, pressing his palms against his eyes. “If I am not back within a--” he glances at the clock bolted to the kitchen wall, --”half hour, then please wake Mr Mitaka and go about your business. Start with the older wolves. End with the younglings. I trust you know the routine.”

If he is to leave the pack, then Finn would likely take over his duties. Dependable and loyal Finn would make an excellent werewolf someday.

“Yes sir,” says Finn, giving him a mock salute.

Hux waves a dismissive hand. “Don't call me that. We are of equal rank, Mr Finn.”

But he laughs, so clearly amused. “Yes, Mr Hux, but you're so _formal._ I can just _feel_ your military training rolling off of our shoulders.”

Hux stiffens, lips pressing into a fine line. His leg aches, once again reminding him of his humiliation. “Yes... well...” He does not find his words, and Finn leaves it as that.

He turns on his heels and hurries, setting off to Phasma's room.

As the first woman Alpha heading the London pack, she is awarded many luxuries. Not only does she has her own extravagant bedroom, but an attached bath as well.

What Hux would do for one of his own! The communal showers simply lost their appeal once he'd discovered the sight of such a luxury like a clawfoot tub. How he'd like to soak in one for hours at a time!

Tentatively, he stands outside of Phasma's room.

Their Alpha, though powerful and experienced, could be on the unpredictable side.

He had been surprised and shocked when she had deemed it important enough to save him from punishment.

Never had anyone instilled such loyalty in Hux.

He clears his throat before rapping against the door. “Captain Phasma?” he calls. “Mr Finn has let me know that you've requested my appearance.”

The door opens quickly, slamming harshly against a wall.

Hux does not so much as flinch.

Phasma, in all her six-foot-three glory, stands, clothed only in a dressing gown, already falling open. Hux averts his eyes, holding back a sigh. The Alpha is crowned with platinum blond hair, cropped much shorter than any other lady of standing dared to.

Phasma happened to be both a werewolf and an advisor to the Queen. Who would be so stupid to question her decisions?

“It's nice to see that some of us can be prompt,” she says, grinning wickedly.

He enters her room, nodding slightly. Hux stands, looking sadly upon the fine red dress thrown so carelessly atop of Phasma's large bed. It is red and frilly, sporting a low decolletage. It had been custom made by a French tailor to Phasma's exact measurements—because so rarely did something fit the Amazonian woman.

Phasma notices his glance and scrunches up her nose. “Too constricting around the stomach,” she explains. “And such a waste of good material if the need for a wolf arises.”

Hux sighs again.

Wolves seem to always prefer a state of semi-nudity, not feeling at all conscious about their bodies.

Captain Phasma—lady of high social standing, Alpha of the London pack, and advisor to the Queen herself—is incredibly well known to break the norms. Often, the lady is found dressed in men's clothes.

 _The folly of werewolves_ , the press are always eager to say.

_Why couldn't such a beautiful woman be a vampire instead?_

“What have you summoned me here for, if I may be so forward, Captain?” he says, lowering his eyes. She had been the one to clear him for the additional bacta along with saving his life. But she had also made him retire from the military.

Surely, if he proved to be capable, she'd let him rejoin. Perhaps, Hux tells himself, clenching his fists, clawing the insides of his palms.

“The Shadow Council is to have a meeting at sundown,” she says, tapping a long nailed hand against her closet, almost as if she'd throw it open and put something more appropriate to wear. “I would have you come along as my assistant. Lord Ren and some of his dandies will surely be there and I will not be outdone.”

“Yes Captain,” Hux says, lips thinning once more.

Lord Ren—a vampire younger than Hux himself.

A vampire who had been a drone not too long ago.

An annoying young man who had been given too much power, far too quickly.

Oh, how Hux loathed him.

“If I may ask,” he says, interrupting, though trying to be meek. It does not come easy to him.

She nods, spurring him on.

“Are you sure he's... been able to retain a dandy?” asks Hux, putting it as non-offensive as he can—again, something that does not come easy to him, especially when it comes to Ren. Handsome, insufferable Ren.

Vampire Ren, who had never been able to keep humans following him the way Phasma keeps her cavaliers. Rumor had it that his staff consisted entirely of mechanicals!

“Good point,” says Phasma, not losing her mirth. “Still, it'd be better to show off my people.”

“Yes Captain,” Hux says. “Anything else?”

“I was meaning to bring Mr Mitaka along as well, but we are better off keeping him far from Ren, yes?” she says, quirking a brow, smiling solicitously, finding the one-sided animosity—from Ren to poor Mitaka— _hilarious_.

“Yes Captain. Shall we bring along Mr Finn instead?” he asks.

They are running low on cavaliers—something not too uncommon for this time of year. Three had recently been approved for the Bite and gone through with the ritual. Two had come out of it as healthy werewolves and were likely sleeping off the effects of the moon madness.

“Yes,” Phasma says.

“Will that be all, my lady?” Hux asks.

Phasma taps a finger to her bottom lip, thinking. “That is all,” she agrees. “Just be prepared for sundown. Get some rest, Mr Hux.”

“Very well,” he says, bowing appropriately and excusing himself from his Alpha's presence.

*

Hux dresses himself quickly, finding his best coat and pair of shoes—preparing himself to make audience with the Queen. He only hopes his Alpha follows the same dressing guidelines as her cavaliers.

As he enters the main sitting room, he finds that not to be the case.

Phasma stands in the very center and though she has chosen to wear a dress, it is not by London's standard of fashion—especially not for an event as consequential as a meeting with the Queen.

Though Phasma wears a visiting gown, it is several seasons old and a terrible shade of lime! The frills that surround the low neck don't flatter the muscular woman, and the color itself does not nearly go with her complexion!

And worst of all, Phasma wears but _one_ petticoat underneath! The outlines of her legs are practically visible and just inviting scandal.

Hux wants to sighs but suppresses it, saying nothing.

At least when it came to the mens clothes, they were tailored for her and made of the finest materials—the very least you could expect from Miss Rey, graduate of both Mademoiselle Geraldine's Finishing School and a self-taught tailor.

Phasma simply bought whatever gown, without a thought, and who is Hux to explain it to her?

Werewolves have never been known for their sense of fashion.

Phasma leans on her parasol—another device engineered by Rey. “Ready, are we?”

Finn stands at her side, smiling even.

“Careful now,” Hux advises. “Your thumb is terribly close to the trigger for the _luna potio._ The first dose would not be lethal, but it would be painful. Even worse, it'd be a terror to remove from the wooden floorboards.”

It would be hard to remove from her gown too—but that wouldn't be something to pity.

Phasma laughs, a great big guffaw that shakes her mighty form. “Oh Mr Hux. It enchants me how you know my weapon better than me.”

He frowns, turning his head away. “Yes, well... I do get stuck with it often.”

“Only because I'd rather use my teeth and claws,” she teases, flashing one of her infamous smiles. “Well now, come along boys. I'm sure Mr Mitaka can handle the rest of the men.”

It is not as if the mousy little Mitaka had a choice in the matter.

There were hardly any cavaliers to choose from!

Their carriage already waits.

“Mr Dameron,” Finn greets, smiling just a little too broadly.

London's best horsedriver smiles back, just as broad, stepping close to Finn. We wears a threadbare jacket, one he'd been wearing for _years—_ so many _seasons_ out of fashion, Hux thought. He didn't dare to bring it up, lest he be called a vampire dandy yet again!

The horses, both orange little beasts, snort fondly, almost amused by their master's pinkened cheeks.

“Captain Phasma, Mr Finn, Mr Hux, how good it is to see you all,” Poe says, bowing slightly. There is a scratch just over his eyebrow, crusted over and dry. “A meeting with the Queen?” His eyes shine, excitable.

“Yeah, yeah,” agrees Finn. “Important business. You could say we're big deals there.” He fiddles with his cravat—and Hux cannot just tell him to stop. Not in front of Poe. But he just wishes Finn would have the sense to not blather on.

Poe smiles fondly, eyelids lowering. “I can tell.”

And somehow, yet again, Hux feels as if Poe is much too kind and much too patient.

Hux opens the carriage door, gesturing towards the insides to both Phasma and Finn.

Phasma boards first, not caring for how she crushed her gown lifeless as she sat.

*

Buckingham Palace is a gorgeous work of architecture—even if Hux is not the best person to judge. Large and imposing, spacious yet graceful. A bed of red flowers bloom outside, despite the cooling air.

It has never been the place to hold meetings for the Shadow Counsel.

Hux's eyes dart, watching the passing scenery.

The ride is almost pleasant.

Then Phasma prods his kneecap with her parasol, tilting her head to the left—smile too smug on her face. “Oh, Mr Hux. It appears that Lord Ren is arriving with us.”

Hux scowls but turns his head, watching with beady eyes as Ren's gaudy carriage soared past their own commandeered one.

The carriage—much too spacious for a single person, much in the modern vampire fashion—is black. Black wood? Or stained? Expensive either way. Likely custom designed, like many other things that the vampire possessed.

The big carriage is pulled by two horses, black from mane to hoof. Their eyes are red and seem to glow eerily, never once blinking.

One snorts, tosses its head.

There is no horseman to be seen.

Finn gapes, leaning forward, pressing his cheek to the glass window. “Who's controlling that thing?” he asks, eyes darting nervously about the carriage box. He finds no one, as to be expected.

“Our dear Lord Ren,” says Phasma, pulling a fan from one of her parasol's hidden pockets, likely concealing an unladylike grin. (The Queen never did enjoy it when the Alpha acted _too unladylike_.) “You've met him, yes?”

Finn's brows raise and he looks to Hux, seeking answers.

Hux can only sigh and nod. “Vampires,” he acquiesces. “They do not care so much for human social norms.”

“Okay,” Finn says. “I understand that, Mr Hux, but can you tell me how he is _controlling_ those horses?”

Poe hears, even through the window frame that keeps them apart. His shoulders jerk up, laughing softly. “They're mechanicals, Mr Finn. Brand new models just in from Unkarr Plutt and his Picklemen!”

“Mechanicals you say?” echoes Hux, staring at the horses. “Very realistic, aren't they?”

“Got some new graduates from Bunson's I hear,” says Poe. “Really, _really_ good with mechanicals and engineering. It's like a revolution honestly. And they've been sponsored by the vampire King Snoke, so vampires that descend from Snoke get the first pick of the new tech.”

Poe sighs, dreamingly. “What I'd give to work with on of his horses.”

One of Poe's horses, real and alive, snorts loudly, rightly annoyed with its master's behavior.

Hux leans back in the seat, tilting his head up, closing his eyes. “Ah. How quaint.” he says, ignoring the horse's outburst and Poe's admonishing of it.

“Five more minutes,” Poe promises, horses speeding up.

*

Their destination is a teahouse—one whose baked goods the Queen happened to enjoy moreso than she enjoyed the actual tea.

Simply called the Dining Hall, it doesn't quite take after its name considering how few items called the menu its home.

The Queen has already taken a seat outside, just underneath an overlarge parasol. Her hair, dark and glossy, is braided and pinned up. She wears a blue gown, the most vibrant color in the room.

At her side, seated already, holding half a glass of wine, Lord Ren pouts.

He wears a frilly coat, too large even for his large frame. The frills do nothing to hide the broadness of his chest; they come to fall as low as his hips, flaring where they are tapered. The coat itself falls to the ground, overlarge, dragging against the dirt.

His tophat rests on his knees, bouncing as he shakes them.

His hair, long and curled, comes down in waves, hiding his overlarge ears.

It seems _everything_ about him is overlarge.

The Queen barely smiles, inclining her head. “Lady Phasma. How good to see you again. Right on time.”

Phasma bows and takes a seat, leaving one in between herself and Ren.

Hux sighs, takes it, saving Finn the horror.

Finn would not like to go anywhere near the man, not after hearing Mitaka's tearful accounts.

“Now we are just waiting for Miss Bazine,” says Queen Victoria. “And then we shall order our teas and biscuits. Perhaps at least some pastries? Lady Phasma, you must try something. I swear they are delightful.” She says so forcefully.

Hux hides a shiver.

Phasma shakes her head, just slightly. “No, thank you, your Majesty. I must stay in shape,” she says. “Active duty, and all that.”

The Queen sighs, seems disappointed.

Then she turns to the vampire.

“Well Mr Ren, perhaps you'll have a try? You vampires can taste things, yes?” Queen Victoria says, her jewels gleaming—presents, from her suitor.

The vampire hadn't been expecting that, surely. He chokes down the rest of his wine, slamming the glass too roughly onto the table. “Yes, your Majesty,” he says, lips twisting. “But--”

Oh, _Ren_.

Poor, foolish, vampiric Ren.

Once you agree to the Queen, you cannot go back.

And you certainly cannot demand something from the Queen!

“--were we not called here for business?” Ren says, waving a black-tipped hand, quirking a brow. His lips are twitching downwards, in an angry sneer.

Only Ren would be so bold to suggest the _Queen_ herself get on with business.

Queen Victoria retrieves her fan, waves it in front of her face, hiding outrage at Ren's bluntness. “Yes, but business concerning the Shadow Counsel must be shared with _all_ members. I am glad both you and our werewolf representatives could make it on time, but it seems like our preternatural representative is running late. It wouldn't be fair.”

A ladybug lands on the tablecloth, wriggling upwards, towards Hux's empty glass.

“Besides, she has some information. Or so she claims,” the Queen says so lightly.

He brushes it away.

“Excuse me,” says the late Bazine, looking slightly ruffled. Her black-tipped fingers clutch at her voluminous skirts. Her dress tapers off at her small waist, made smaller by a corset underneath, surely. Bazine favors dresses with high necks, and today is no different despite the comfortable temperature. “I am sorry for my lateness. There is no excuse.”

Her pale cheeks are rouged with excursion and with rouge itself.

“Oh, Miss Bazine. We were just talking about you,” the Queen says, gesturing to an empty seat, right across from her.

Bazine seats herself, smoothing down her skirts. Her head is mostly covered with a scarf, all but her face. She leans forward, ever serious. “Your Majesty, now that we are all here, may I ask what this session of the Shadow Counsel is for?”

A mechanical makes its way to their table, not deviating from the path set for it in the hard marble ground. Carefully, it places a teapot in the center of the table.

“Careful,” the mechanical advices. “The tea is hot!”

Hux rises, picking up the pot. “Allow me,” he says, pouring tea for everyone.

Finn drinks it straight, no milk, no sugar. “Hmm...” Finn hums, biting back widened eyes and a wince.

Hux shoots him a sympathetic smile.

Finn had never grown to like tea. Instead, the young gentleman preferred coffee, of all things!

Another ladybug.

This one lands by Ren's glass.

The vampire stares at it, hardly shooing it away.

And if he does not care, why should Hux?

“Cambric tea, my Lord?” Hux asks, speaking quietly, so as to not speak over the Queen, who had already begun to sip at her slightly sweetened tea.

“Yes...” Ren says, slowly.

A splash of good tea then.

Ren creates the _sludge_ himself, adding cream and sugar to his—admittedly _bad—_ taste.

Supposedly the son of two Americans, at least according to all the gossip rags, Hux should not expect him to have good taste. _If only the Vampire King Snoke had taught him etiquette before turning him into a bloodsucker..._

The vampire lifts his cup up, bringing it to bloodless, thin lips, taking a loud and slow slurp. He closes his amber eyes in pleasure, letting out a soft hum.

Hux shakes his head and returns his eyes to the insect, silently cursing Snoke once more.

“Miss Bazine, you said you had something to discuss with us,” Queen Victoria says, sounding much like a parent scolding her forgetful child.

“Oh, yes!” Bazine says, smiling awkwardly. Her cheek dimples with the smile, something Hux had not seen before. “My apologies.”

So, if you would please entice us with your findings,” says the Queen, lifting a crumpet and nibbling upon it. Phasma and Finn follow suit. Hux takes another sip of tea, eyes darting from the Queen to the face of the soulless woman.

She inclines her head, fluttering her lashes at the gathered. “We have reason to suspect unrest in werewolf affairs--”

“Not true,” Phasma says, waving her fan in front of her face, short golden hairs flying out of style. Her agitation is apparent, even with her attempts at hiding it. “We aren't like vampires, my dear.”

Ren nearly growls, much like an animal, his irises constricting. His amber, overlarge eyes are all too dreadfully enticing, as usual. “Lady Phasma, don't insinuate those things. It's improper.”

“I apologize, Lord Ren,” says Phasma, not looking so in the very slightest.

Bazine finds her own fan, a simple, elegant thing—surely, it'd cost a fortune. The emerald cloth is embroidered with golden thread. The very top of it is a leather piece. _Odd_ , Hux thinks. It looks newer than the fan itself. She fans herself slowly, as if showing off the designs on the back of the fan. Hux cannot make anything out from the abstract stitchings.

“As I said, our informants have informed us of a possible plot to undermine the authority of both our Queen Victoria and your own London Pack,” says Bazine. “It is my humble suggestion that we send our army to the Highlands.”

“Unacceptable,” says Phasma, military training boiling underneath her skin. That—and her loyalty to her kin. “We cannot attack another pack without any evidence of wrongdoing.”

Another ladybug joins the one that loiters by Ren's tea cup.

The lord raises a brow and moves his cup.

The ladybugs follow.

How curious.

“And risk the life of your Queen, your country?” Bazine questions, one black brow rising high on her long forehead. “Even your position is a precarious one, Lady Phasma—if you would excuse me for being so bold. No other pack has kept a woman as an Alpha.”

Phasma stands up, slamming both palms against the table. “Not acceptable,” she says once again. “Our military would lose lives in this endeavor: and for what? If I might be so _bold_ to ask!”

Bazine stands, just as quickly, rouged cheeks glowing a fiercer red.

“Lady Phasma, Miss Bazine, please, let's sit and drink our tea,” says Finn, steadily, quietly. His eyes shift to Hux, who deems it appropriate to shrug helplessly. The ladies will do as the ladies please. He'd rather not get too involved when one holds his life in her hands and the other has a propensity for poisonings.

Remarkably—for the night is full of surprises—Bazine seats herself, smoothing down her skirts. Unusual for such a stubborn woman.

But nothing goes as one should expect that day.

Lord Kylo Ren, the ever moody vampire, is surprisingly well behaved tonight.

He holds a ladybug between two fingers, both with nails too long to be acceptable. Surprisingly against his streak of destruction, he doesn't crush the insect. Just holds it. Watching it, with a terribly gloomy frown on his face.

“Lord Ren,” the Queen asks, one brow arching in contemplation. “Do you have... an insect in your hand.”

“For what it is worth, your Majesty, I believe that this is a mechanical,” he says, shaking the minuscule thing.

“A mechanical?” Victoria repeats, reaching a hand across the table, nimble fingers seeking out the ladybug.

The vampire does not hand it over. His amber eyes, shadowed now, flit back to the underbelly of the creature.

“What purpose could it serve?” wonders Hux, leaning closer to Ren, light eyes examining it. His warm breath brushes against Ren's shoulder.

It may be his imagination, but Ren shivers.

He weighs his options, clearly struggling with what he is about to say.

“It appears to contain a microphone, likely as a device to spy on conversations such as ours,” Ren says, bowing his head, hair spilling past broad shoulders. He crushes the delicate looking mechanical, reaching out to quickly crush its twins, small bits of oil splashing out and staining the pads of his fingers. “It isn't distinct enough for me to know who the inventor is... No initials anywhere either.”

“Oh my...” the Queen breathes.

Bazine shuts her fan right before her eyes and rises to her feet. “We must leave then,” she says, voice pinches and strained. A wrinkle develops at the center of her forehead. She taps her folded fan against her right cheek. “For the safety of our Queen and nation, we must hurry.”

Taking teetering steps, the preternatural woman settles against Victoria's side.

The Queen chastises her. “I am not an invalid,” she scolds.

Still, in times of crises, it is good to have someone with no soul at your beck and call. No supernatural creature could stand the touch of the preternatural; no supernatural creature _liked_ having its powers stolen away by a human, temporarily becoming human itself.

Hux's leg aches as he rises. His hand grips too tightly around the back of his chair. Even the wounds that stretch across his stomach and chest begin to feel very fresh.

“Here,” says Phasma, passing over her parasol, shooting him a concerned glance. “I trust you know how to use it?”

“It's an umbrella,” Ren scolds, adjusting the frills of his greatcoat. “I would think anyone would be able to use it.”

Phasma laughs, and tilts her head closer to Hux, conspiratorially. “Wouldn't Lord Ren be in for a nasty surprise?”

Hux taps the parasol against the ground. The very tip of it hides two spring loaded stakes: one made of wood and one made of nearly pure silver, perfect for slaying both vampires and werewolves.

Lord Ren did not need to know this.

He leans on it, Finn hovering worriedly at his side.

Phasma links her arms with the Queen—a rather bold move, even for her—and begins to walk out of the teahouse, leaving half drunken cups of tea and several scones and pastries behind. Bazine flanks the Queen's other side, head held high, fan gripped tightly at her side.

The menfolk are left to follow.

“Where are we going?” Finn asks, whispering furiously.

Hux's lips thin. “I've no reason to know for sure, but I'd suspect her palace, Mr Finn,” he says. “It should be the safest place for the Queen, no?”

“It isn't safe,” Ren says, looming eerily by Hux. His shoulders hang somewhere by his ears; he makes himself smaller—not something a vampire should do in a crisis. And as always, he appears gloomy and byronic, gangly even.

“Yes, we are well aware of that, Lord Ren,” Hux says slowly, dismissing the nobleman, following the ladies' lead as best he can. Every step he takes is dreadfully painful. A bead of sweat rolls down his neck.

“And you are well aware that you are walking too slow?” Ren prompts, staring at him.

Hux rolls his eyes. “No, I was not aware. Thank you so much, Lord Ren, for enlightening me,” he bites.

“Forgive him, Lord Ren,” Finn says, almost choking on his words.

Lord Ren—vampire, aristocrat, and American—is well known for the brutality of his anger. Mitaka could attest to that.

“He is still recovering from injuries sustained while in service,” Finn babbles, trying to snatch Hux's arm and wrap it around his shoulders. Hux would not let him do it; snappish, he bats Finn's attempts away.

“Ah,” Ren says, wide eyes betraying his youth.

How awful it is to think... a vampire younger than Hux. And one that could not even smell the signs of injury!

“Well then, Mr Hux, hold on to your _parasol,_ _”_ Ren says.

And without another warning, Ren hoists Hux up and tosses him over his shoulder, like he would a sack of flour—only lighter.

“Unhand me this instant, Lord Ren!” Hux yelps, pounding his fists against Ren's solid back.

Ren laughs, a rumble underneath Hux's hands. “Mr Hux, I assure you, this is the fastest and safest way we will keep up with the ladies.”

And Hux is not given a choice.

Finn jogs to keep up, looking a tad bit ridiculous when compared to the long limbed and supernaturally fast vampire.

A carriage awaits just outside—the large, pitch black colored wagon that could only belong to a man such as Lord Ren. Their only choice escape vehicle, quite possibly, considering that Poe was no longer in the area and the Queen had walked from her palace to the teahouse.

Ren waves a hand and the door opens, so rapidly, it could have been magic.

“Get in,” says Ren, voice gruff.

Phasma doesn't hesitate, barreling into the carriage, wrestling with her skirts. If she is not more careful, she will surely rip something.

Then, Hux wouldn't mind. Finally, she'd have to order something from _this_ season and possibly something _not_ lime colored.

Bazine helps the Queen herself inside before hopping in. She struggles, truly struggles, with her skirts for just a moment. Finn steps forward, shoving her into the carriage.

“Not very gentleman-like, Mr Finn,” Hux says, as dignified as he can, dangling off of Ren's shoulder. The vampire had not let him down, one overheated palm clamped firmly atop the small of Hux's back. The radiating warmth is comforting, though the fresh wetness at his abdomen is not. He's thankful to have worn dark colors.

“Yes, well,” Finn groans. “We do what we can.” Face heated, he steps into the carriage, wincing when Ren practically flings Hux in beside him.

Ren clambers in last, door shutting quickly.

The midnight colored mechanical horses come to life, whinnying rather realistically. Not being living creatures, the go straight into a gallop, jostling the wagon uncomfortably.

“Oh my,” the Queen says, once again, a strand of hair escaping her high braids.

Phasma leans over, pulling a curtain away from the window. She presses herself close, bright eyes roaming the landscape. “I don't... see anyone,” she says. Quietly, she lets out a sigh. “Who would attempt to spy on their Queen?”

Bazine pulls her leather tipped fan and fans herself rapidly. “That's quite a bit of excitement for today, yes, Lady Phasma? It wouldn't do for us of weaker dispositions...”

Phasma quirks a brow, offended. “Well, I wouldn't say--”

The leather casing atop the fan apparently comes off.

It comes off so easily, with a twist of Bazine's wrist, revealing a silver blade beneath.

 

 


	2. Treason after Tea Time—Along Comes A Transformation

“Miss Bazine!” the Queen scolds, staying firmly in place, back ramrod straight and face so very noble and poised. “Just what is the meaning of this?”

“Your Majesty, get behind me! I will protect you,” Phasma yells, tearing off her human skin and her gown, that lime colored atrocity. Her bones crack and groan, reforming as she becomes a wolf—a large, platinum colored creature, mouth full of sharpened teeth.

Slobbering, Phasma leaps over the Queen, snapping at Bazine, tearing at both skin and clothing. The Queen—as ordered by her Captain—moves over, taking Phasma's seat. Unlike Finn, the Queen does not cower before the incredibly dangerous sight.

A preternatural going rogue... Who would have thought?

Gloved hands and most skin almost fully covered, Phasma was mostly safe from Bazine's preternatural abilities—but if she continued to tear at overly voluminous skirts, Phasma would soon put herself in a bad spot.

Bazine crashes against the siding, hitting her head hard.

A smile grows on her pallid face, even as Phasma nips at her covered throat, the move mostly used as a warning with her packmates.

Ladybugs.

Just like the one Ren had crushed between two fingers in the Queen's favorite teahouse. Just like the ones Ren had identified as some new type of mechanical.

The mechanical insects fly in through the half opened windows, creating a terrible din.

Phasma wines, falls to the floor of the carriage, wolven form a miserable bundle of fur and torn fabric and lace.

Ren lunges, amber eyes wild and teeth bared, but he does not make it far.

In the scuffle with Phasma, Bazine had taken off her riding gloves. Her wide pale hands suction themselves onto Ren's face, thumbs pushing in on his eye sockets, the softest part to a face.

The vampire—human for the moment and so very weak—howls and thrashes in her grasp. Somehow, Bazine is the stronger, even while both are mortal. Strange, that.

The carriage buckles and twists, moving from side to side on the pathway, mechanical horses left without a master to guide them their way. They rush on, blinded and confused.

“Mr Finn!” Hux shouts, desperate to be heard over the buzzing of the ladybugs and the pitiful groaning of Ren. “You've spent time with Mr Poe! Can you manually guide the mechanicals?”

“Yeah, yes, yes!” Finn yells back, brows furrowing deeply. “I think so!” In the crises, he does not let his face heat at the thought of the carriage driver.

Oh, how Hux wanted Poe here in this instance of pure chaos.

“Don't think,” Hux urges. “Just _do_.”

Hux throws open the carriage door. It slams against the outside of the carriage itself, making a resounding noise. The hinges groan. “Quickly!” Hux urges, hair blowing out from the careful style. “Before we crash!”

Finn—having spent time working in both the boiler room and the navigation center of Brendol Hux's military-grade dirigible—is all too used to spending time hanging off the sides of moving vehicles. This time, less soot and ash would be involved, to Finn's delight.

Hux turns back to the scene: Phasma, still wolven and hairy, whimpering in pain as mechanical ladybugs land upon her body, the noise still emitting; Ren still being assaulted by Bazine; the Queen herself, lips stern, arms crossed over her chest, very much unflappable.

The parasol—though a truly remarkable work of engineering and of fashion—did not contain anything fit to fight off mechanicals or soulless traitors. The _sola potio_ and the _luna potio_ would largely affect the _other_ passengers instead of the threats themselves.

Hux presses the button near the top, freeing the silver stake and just prayed that he not miss.

The silver blade leaps out at the tip. Hux rushes, coming from Ren's side and protecting the Queen. He jabs quickly, feeling something give way.

Bazine screams, a loud and sharp little thing but doesn't quite quit as the stake tears into her flesh. Her bladed fan doesn't make a reappearance.

But a muffpistol does.

And her aim proves to be quite good, even under the great duress of physical pain.

The carriage wobbles over, pitching onto its side before righting itself: no doubt, Finn's job.

Hux falls back, body hitting the carriage door. He yelps, landing on top of Phasma, crushing several of the ladybugs in the process. “I apologize,” Hux says, wincing, grasping at his belly. “That was improper.” He blinks rapidly, feeling blood pool between his fingers.

Even more improper, the blood seeps through his shirt and through his best jacket and though he wears darkly colored things, this much blood would really not do. His best clothing would end up as nothing other than garbage by the end of the night.

Phasma yips, likely a scathing remark, and gets out from under Hux, letting Hux fall back onto the carriage floor.

“Yes, I quite agree.”

“So,” says the Queen, like she is in the middle of a relaxed conversation, not some sort of attempt at murder. “What have you done with our Miss Bazine?” One brow is arched ever high, her hands folded and relaxed over her lap.

In the struggle, Ren had pulled off her headcovering, revealing long, honey-blonde hair, that curled just _so._

His head is light upon his shoulders. Carefully, Hux reaches down, towards the wound, cold fingers meeting a rush of warm blood. Pressure. He must apply pressure.

Revealing that the woman in their midst is very much not Bazine Netal—preternatural, intelligencer, and burn victim, but still both preternatural and intelligencer, just not on _their_ side.

“Who are you?” Ren asks, hand coming to wrap about her throat. He leans close, tilting his head, coming much _too_ close for a lady. He sniffs her, like an animal. “Lemon and soap, just like Bazine.”

“Well, shall we have an ans--?” the Queen begins.

The terrible shrieks of the mechanical horses cut her off.

And then they begin to fall.

*

His mouth is too dry.

But the rest of him is warm—terribly, awfully, comfortably warm.

And he feels so tired, like everything has been drained from him.

His pillow is large and warm and comfortable, and the blanket soft, tickling his cheek.

His knees hang off the bed, into the coolness of open air.

 _Strange, that,_ Hux thinks, dazedly. He hadn't had that problem in years.

“He's awake,” Phasma's voice calls, somewhere out in the darkness. But Hux cannot find himself to care, curling closer to the incredible warmth, muttering softly. “Mr Hux,” Phasma says, laughing, touching his shoulder gingerly. “Lord Ren, he is still be a 'mister,' yes? No fancy terminology yes?”

His pillow _growls_.

And with that Armitage Hux awakens, eyes fluttering open.

The room—walls of a lemon meringue color—is much too bright for his sensitive eyes. A heavy arm is draped across his torso, keeping him tucked close to a certain insufferable vampire.

Ren.

Who looks at him with such strange eyes.

“Nice to see you've woken up,” Ren says, speaking slowly. There is blood at the corner of his lip. He doesn't seem to notice.

Hux blinks again, gathering his wits. “Let go of me,” he says, jabbing at the musculature of Ren's clothed arm.

The blanket he'd found so warm and soft is very much not a blanket. Wrapped carefully around Hux is Ren's ruffled greatcoat, carrying with it Ren's earthy, masculine scent. Hux shifts, the coat falling from his shoulder, exposing pale, milky skin.

He squawks, pulling the coat back to cover his shoulders, despairing.

His legs—from knee to foot, exposing ankle, how scandalous!--were on full display! And worse yet, all in front of a _lady of quality!_

His face colors, quickly turning as red and unattractive as his hair.

“T-tell me,” he hisses, unable to soften his demands or put them in better terms even before his superiors. “Just _why_ am I naked?”

Phasma smiles, wide, awkward—very ferociousness. “Well,” she says and Hux steels himself. “You see, you were shot--”

The impostor.

Her muffpistol.

And the bullet that had torn through his pink and soft flesh.

Eyes shifting away from Phasma's rather pitiful expression, Hux shifts the jacket, trying to discreetly search for bandages.

He finds none, though he is glad to see his underthings have remained.

“What is this?” he asks, anger rising, finding his skin smooth, hairless, and scarless. Three things it hadn't been, not since he began his military service. Three things it hadn't been since his punishment. His leg, that terribly mangled thing, seems to be in good shape: painless and loose.

“Listen, Mr Hux,” says Phasma. “It was a matter of life or death.”

“If I hadn't done it, then you wouldn't be alive right now,” Ren grumbles, the vibrations of his voice jolting along every bone in Hux's body.

He pulls away, sitting up, clutching the coat close to his body. Cheeks red, he shifts, scooting—unfortunately—away from such a source of heat. “What. Have you. Done?” he grits out.

“I apologize, Mr Hux,” Ren says, face low and forlorn. He sits up, long, dark locks sticking to his face where he had lain against Hux. “With Captain Phasma's permission in lieu of your own, I have turned you into a drone.”

The world comes to a crashing halt.

“You've _what_ now?” Hux says, voice so small and thin and weak.

“Oh, Mr Hux, you've gone so pale,” Phasma says. “Take it easy.”

They've taken everything, _everything_ that Hux has worked his _life_ for. Ren has taken away Hux's final chance at proving his worth and his gratitude to his Alpha, the woman who _saved_ him.

And then Hux sees what she is wearing.

Phasma. Military woman, Alpha of the London pack, and woman known to be overly fond of trousers. She wears a chrome colored gown, lacking petticoats once again. The deep v-cut of the dress only serves to accentuate her height. The arms, puffy and frilled, do well to hide her well muscled arms.

One of Rey's designs.

His brows furrow.

“Captain Phasma, I suspect I will no longer be allowed to stay under your patronage, but if I were to make a final request?” Hux says, resigned.

“What is it?” she asks, leaning down, unaware of the neckline of her dress slipping.

Hux averts his eyes, still feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. “Would you ask Miss Rey for clothing that would fit me? I am horrendously underdressed for this discussion.”

Phasma nods. “I will be back in just a moment. Lord Ren, Mr Hux, I suspect you'll have much to talk about in my absence.”

She leaves, quiet in the manner that all werewolves seem to walk, conscientious of her own steps.

Hux sighs, deeply weary. “How long have I been unconscious?”

“It's been about a day and a half,” says Ren.

“Daytime now?” Hux asks, eyes shifting to the heavy curtains in Rey's main sitting room—momentarily turned into a place of near darkness for the vampire and his newly created drone.

“Yes,” says Ren, dipping his head. He sits up, shirt stretching across his broad chest and shoulders, a physique Hux had never been able to attain no matter how hard he had trained.

“I've half a mind to open the curtains for what you've done to me,” Hux hisses, sneering at his new patron.

“What I've done to you? You mean saving your life?” Ren hisses, eyes drooping down, staring at the length of Hux's throat.

He is absolutely certain that his blush extends downwards, as low down as his chest. Using a corner of Ren's delightfully soft coat, he hides his neck. “Don't look at me like that,” Hux orders.

“Like what?” Ren says, moving away, baffled.

“Like I am some morsel you are about to eat,” Hux says, furious. “I did not _want_ to become a drone, Ren.” Already, his jaw aches and he does not know why. Drones, as far as he knew, did not gain fangs!

“Would you rather have died, Hux?” Ren asks.

He is being unfair—asking so softly, as if he cares! They've known each other for five years, barely speaking civilly in all that time, and now he tries using his manners for once.

And he finds he cannot answer, not truly.

“Hello Mr Hux!” Rey's cheerful voice brightens any room she enters.

Like Phasma, she wears a rather poof-less skirt. ( _“Better for maneuvering!”_ she'd say, no doubt, the little scoundrel she was. The last time she had worn full skirts had been while she purposely crashed a Pickleman ship. Perhaps it was too early to relive those memories.) It is a light beige color—a rather dull color for a woman just barely out in her seasons! Her long, brown hair is done up in three small buns, _a la mode_ in Paris, apparently.

“Hello, Miss Rey. I am sorry for my appearance,” he says, swallowing back vitriol. He wants to cast the blame upon the ones who had _caused_ his inappropriate nudity, Ren and the Bazine imposter both.

“No, no,” she says, settling a bundle of cloth down on the couch beside Hux. “You've had a grueling few days, or so Phasma has said.”

Hux raises a brow at the familiarity employed between the two women. When had that developed? How hadn't he noticed?

“Lord Ren,” Rey says with considerably less warmth. “Shall we leave and allow Mr Hux to make himself decent? I understand how difficult it must be for a vampire to abandon a newly made drone, but,” she sighs, “exceptions must be made, yes?”

Ren stands, running a long-nailed hand through his hair at some attempt to neaten it. “Yes,” he agrees, not quite looking at Rey. He offers her his elbow.

She doesn't accept.

Instead, she leads the way out of the room, Ren trailing behind.

The vampire is sure to shut the door on his way out.

Thank the heavens for small mercies.

*

Rey's creations are always lovely, even if the sizes are never quite meant for someone like him. The pants, though a tad long and obviously meant for another, work, if he just rolls up the waist and bottoms a tad. The shirt is loose about the shoulders, but form-fitting about the waist. The shoes provided are the only things that fit as they should.

More tragically, his hair is untamable; his small curls are only more prominent from sleep.

And still, he enters Rey's entertaining room, unable to make himself more presentable.

Just before he apologizes for his current state of disorder, Finn leaps up from the couch and crowds him, fisting the fine material of the shirt and pulling Hux in close.

Finn _hugs_ him, wrapping strong arms around his back and resting his head on Hux's shoulder.

...when had _that_ developed?  
“I was worried,” he says, voice wobbling, eyes moist. “It was so scary, seeing you so pale... and motionless... and Lord Ren, at your throat, blood _everywhere,_ most terrifying of all.”

Hux's hand flutters up from where it had been trapped, prodding experimentally at his throat. Logically, he knows Ren bit him; he must have, if the sore throat and slight sensitivity to light and sound were any clue. He feels nothing, no wound. It's already healed.

“But, Mr Hux,” Finn whispers, mouth so very close to Hux's ear, “what shall we tell your father? Will he... be angry with you again?”

Ren growls—actually _growls—_ and stands.

“I apologize, Lord Ren,” says Finn, letting go of Hux.

Hux misses the warmth, scolds his body for almost chasing it.

Rey sips at her tea, sitting beside Phasma. “Lord Ren,” she says, scandalized. “Remember that you are within my parlor when you act so beastly and remember that I have been trained to both neutralize and kill vampires.” All is said lightly, lighter than her words should have permitted.

He sniffs, crossing his arms over his check and tossing his head, hair waving madly. “He's my drone, my responsibility, cousin,” he snaps.

“I belong to no one,” Hux snarls, stepping forward, foot coming down forcefully.

Ren looks at him, long, thick lashes parting. His amber eyes swirl with emotion, drawn, like a moth to a flame, to where Hux's throat bobs.

He takes a breath, schooling his features into that blank slate he had so perfected at the Academy. Hux seats himself, taking the cup of tea that is offered and drinking. It is weak for his taste and overly sweet, but he says nothing; the cousins, after all, had a similar taste in tea.

“The Queen... nothing has happened to her, yes?” asks Hux.

“She's safe,” says Phasma. “We took quite a tumble, but I caught her before we truly crashed. I cushioned her fall,” She lets out a huff of breathless laughter. “Did you know that you—truly you—stopped those ladybugs from transmitting that awful noise?”

Hux's eyes are blank. “That noise? Did it serve a purpose? It was simply annoying to me.”

Rey's cheeks, heavily pinkened with excitement, only grow pinker. “Ah! I can clear that for you, Mr Hux!” She reaches into one of the hidden pockets of her dress. (Miss Rey Kenobi seemed to _always_ have hidden pockets filled with gadgets upon gadgets.)

She retrieves one of the ladybug mechanicals, just _slightly_ crushed.

“See, here, there is a microphone for spying purposes but it also comes with a minuscule self-defense apparatus. It's designed against the supernatural, emitting tones that we—humans can barely hear,” explains Rey, pointing out the gadgetry with the tip of her pinky.

“Do you think some sort of... electrical device could be created? To distract the crystal interceptors within?” asks Hux.

Rey hums, tilting her head. “Like some sort of obstructor?” She pauses, touches her chin. “It... could work. But the timing... It wouldn't be too feasible to create something that disengaged mechanicals for long periods of time. It would cost too much energy and the device would have to be overlarge to compensate for the energy lost..”

“But short periods then?” Hux pursues. “It would not be too great an expenditure of energy so it could remain compact. And the short burst of time would buy enough time to further disable a mechanical or, if all goes wrong, it at least would not come across as too suspicious.”

The two, both fond of science and of engineering, continue to chatter, thinking up plans.

“I swear they are speaking the Queen's English, but I don't understand a word,” says Finn, shaking his head. “Engineers.”

Phasma sighs good naturedly. “Ah, they're at it. Well, one can expect no less from the alumni of Geraldine's and Bunson's.”

“Where would you plan to put this device?” asks Ren, looking uncharacteristically wary. “Kept far away from my new horse mechanicals, I should hope. They'd barely survived such an accident...”

“Why, Ren?” teases Rey, grinning, her whole face lighting up. “Are you afraid that we would break the mechanicals? I assure you, with our final grades, any tinkering done to your horses would be an _improvement._ Surely Auntie sent you letters, yes?”

Ren sighs and fiddles with his shirt cuffs.

“Remember,” Rey reminds, smile only growing more brilliant. “Remember all the favors I've done in your favor, all the _information_ passed along?” she throws, sending a quick wink.

Ren sighs once again, growing more sullen. He tosses his long locks once again. “Fine,” he says. “ _You--”_ Ren jabs a finger at Rey's shoulder, “--will be permitted access to the mechanicals, but _he_ will not.”

Outraged, Rey steps forth. “We've worked on many an invention together before.”

“He's mine,” Ren says. His eyes flicker between Rey's noble face and Hux's pale one.

“I am not nor will I ever be _yours_ , especially since you seem set upon thinking of me like an object,” Hux bristles, outraged. “I may serve as your drone, against _my_ will, _Lord_ Ren, but do not mistake it for a sign of ownership.”

Finn winces. “And we had all been getting along so famously. Quick, Miss Rey, bring up your gadgetry once more, please.”

Phasma tuts, holds out a hand. “Please boys,” she says, so much older than anyone assembled and acting so. “We will continue our duties, as always. Lord Ren and Finn have already heard—I am to head to Scotland with some of our older wolves and meet with the Highlands pack.” Her face sours. “To be quite frank with you trusted few, I do not think that the false-Bazine had been truthful about danger coming from a werewolf pack, but I digress. I am under direct orders from the Queen.”

“Lord Ren is to conduct an investigation with the Bureau for Unnatural Registration, searching for the real Miss Bazine and her presumed kidnappers here in London,” Phasma says. Her eyes narrow. “Which sounds a lot more promising to me.”

“Mr Finn,” Phasma turns to him.

He straightens, almost salutes.

“You will stay behind in London. I trust in you and Mr Mitaka to care for the house,” she says, almost kindly.

The house.

Where Hux's father lives as well.

She sees his mask droop for a second and pounces on that seed of worry. “Don't worry, Mr Hux. I think I shall have Commandant Hux come along with me to the Highlands.”

Hux smiles weakly, as weak as the Cambric tea before him. “Oh, Captain. There are two things in the world that father likes: military affairs and tea. I'm not absolutely certain what the Highlands will do for his mood, unless blood is spilt.”

“I suspect military affairs aren't the only affairs he favors,” she throws in with a guffaw, ignoring what glimmers in Hux's eyes, ignoring the scent that rolls from his thin frame.

“Phasma!” Rey says, slapping gently at Phasma's arm.

She still laughs. “I do apologize, Mr Hux. I saw the opportunity and could not resist.” Phasma coughs. “We will be leaving tonight, right when the moon rises. When we leave, Mr Finn and Mr Mitaka will help you settle yourself in Lord Ren's estate.” She turns her mischievous eyes to the sullen man. “If this is alright with you, Lord Ren?”

“Yes, that should work,” Ren says. He takes a sip of his tea and picks up a tiny bell, ringing it. The mechanical maid—a clangermaid specifically, if you would—comes in. It's a newer model, one Rey is tinkering with, and lacks a face. Instead, all of its wiring is exposed.

But it comes with a new pot of tea, free of cream and sugar this time.

Ren pours himself a splash and sets off to creating his favorite concoction.

Things are never quite so simple.

Hux sips at his new cup of tea, so perfectly hot, and resigns himself to his new fate, cursing himself for thinking that Ren could be anything but a handsome brute.

 


	3. Greatcoats and Ghastly Coats--To Visit a Haunted House

Ren's manor is not terribly far from London.

Rather, it is close to major cultural centers—strategic, just what is to be expected from a vampire, leaders in both fashion and theatre.

The manor is spacious, sprawling; though only two floors, it feels much larger.

The front lawn is not well maintained. Grass is overgrown. Trees, bent from the weight of their own branches, only add to the shadows and the intrigue. Perhaps, Hux thinks, that the disorganization is intentional—having an excess of shadows would make sense for Ren, who cannot stand sunlight.

But then again, it _is_ Ren, the same man who puts shopping off until last minute and doesn't buy clothes for _seasons_ and wore the same coat for _years._

Finn and Mitaka had accompanied them in a carriage driven by Poe Dameron. Hux's few belongings is packed away in a few suitcases and hat boxes, much too little for a proper vampire dandy, but enough to crowd the hired wagon.

But he wasn't really a dandy.

He'd skipped that step in servitude, and gone directly to _drone_ status.

Slightly better off than the position he had occupied with the werewolf pack in the eyes of society. Much worse off military wise.

And personally? He didn't like the idea of feeding Ren.

He shudders with revulsion.

Would Ren care about his preferences?

It is hard to imagine. But vampires—at least, the vampires that made London their home—stood for etiquette and proper behavior at any given moment, perhaps why they were so fond of finishing schools throughout the nation.

It is harder still to imagine Ren stand for etiquette, unlike many of his well-mannered contemporaries.

He sighs, taking two hat boxes into his thin arms and moves out of the carriage, towards the house.

A drone, older than the vampire he serves.

Just how _sad_ is that?

He snorts softly to himself, ignoring the finery that decorates the walls on the first floor.

Finn and Mitaka trail along with more of his things, as expected. What's unexpected, however, is Poe's determination to come along as well.

He talks animatedly with Finn, expression soft and so very open, nodding in sympathy when it is appropriate.

Mitaka walks a pace quicker, better to give the lovesick men their own space. His cravat, tied in the waterfall style, compliments the high neck of his stiff shirt. Terrified of the vampire, no doubt, Mitaka had picked his clothing to avoid becoming Ren's second drone and possibly second meal.

Hux's room is located on the second floor, a distance from the master bedroom that surely Ren resides in.

A bed has already been placed in one corner, made up with fine, soft looking sheets and an abundance of pillows. A writing table has been placed in the room—relatively recently if one bent to check with the dust markings on the floor.

The two windows in the room, one situated at the foot of the bed and the other just in front of the desk, are covered with curtains, dark and heavy, more suitable for the vampiric resident of the house. The curtains held another purpose, however: protecting the fragile books left in the guest room-turned-drone quarters.

Three bookshelves stretch from ceiling to floor, packed closely with all sorts of volumes. Hux trails a finger across their spines, some older than Hux himself, some looking as if they are _handwritten—how novel._

_And expensive._

Perhaps gifts from other vampires once Ren had been turned? Where else could he have accumulated such treasures? Surely someone like Ren would not bother searching out historical texts and fairytales alike—too wide a genre and all not vicious enough for Ren's tastes.

Seeing all of Hux's belongings, packed neatly in boxes and containers, lying on the floor in piles is too familiar.

Hux nods at the men. “That's all,” he says, just a tad too soft. “Thank you all for coming along to help me move. I understand that this must be a confusing time.”

Mitaka smiles, watery and weak. “It will be sad without you,” he says, wringing his hands. The leather of his gloves, though soft looking, make a slight, irritating sound. “Who will be there to take leadership of us cavaliers?”

“Well, I suspect that either you or Mr Finn will,” he says, not unkindly. “I'm afraid you don't have many more options, unless you'd like to wait for the next batch of initiates.”

Mitaka withers, imagining the rough bunch that was to come.

Finn laughs, though, heartily, finding Mitaka's continued mousiness and nerves rather amusing. “As if we get many recruits that survive their service--! Mr Mitaka, I believe, is the only cavalier in our history that has gone through with a military career and escaped unharmed.”

Hux's leg, now fleshy and smooth and fully healed, sends a throb of ghostly pain up.

Mitaka smiles nervously, unsure of how to take the pseudo-compliment.

“You-- have to be in the military to be a werewolf cavalier?” Poe asks, brows furrowed. “Huh! I did wonder why the London pack always seemed to be a tad small.” His warm eyes turn to Finn, appreciating the grin that lights his face. “No offense, Mr Finn.”

“Well, Mr Poe, our—the London pack, excuse me, has been deeply involved with various Queens and Kings of this fierce Empire. It should not come across as too surprising, one would think,” Hux says, hands moving to fold behind his back, posture perfect, head tilted.

Poe snorts, turning to the two other men. “It feels like he truly hasn't changed at all,” he remarks behind a hand.

Hux flashes a grin, teeth unchanged from before. But perhaps his presentation would frighten the silly humans. It always seemed to frighten Mitaka when Hux smiled, when when Hux had been entirely human.

“You... you don't have to drink _human_ blood, yes, Mr Hux?” asks Mitaka, fingers flying to his cravat again. He fixes it. Poorly.

He flashes another smile, this one bigger and more vicious. “Oh, Mr Mitaka, you do not know?”

Mitaka whimpers suddenly, taking several steps backwards, outside of a proper, polite conversation's distance.

“I tease,” says Hux, face returning to its impassive natural expression. “Rather, I am the source of food for Lord Ren. The vampire blood within me seals the contract, so to say, and enhances some of my attributes.”

“The accelerated healing was quite the sight, Mr Hux,” Finn assures. “Though the process left some to be desired.”

Poe turns to him, inquisitive. “Isn't the Bite supposed to be worse?”

Mitaka shudders again at the thought. “And not all cavaliers survive the process of werewolfication.”

“No, but it's the risk taken for immortality, yes?” says Hux. “One does not expect to attain eternal life easily.”

They murmur at that.

*

“Hey,” Ren says, just outside of Hux's bedroom. He knocks, for extra measure. “May I come in, Hux?”

Hux sits up in the armchair that had been gifted to him. “You may,” he says, doing nothing to disguise the fact that he had been reading those old books from the shelves.

Ren enters, shoulders hiked up; his eerie eyes are drawn to Hux's hands, to those long, slender fingers. Hux marks his place with his index and looks up, quirking a brow.

“What is it, Ren?” he asks, copying the vampire's use of familiarity.

Ren lives up to a vampire's standard of fashion this time: very Parisian, with an abundance of lace and frills. His white, starchy shirt is blinding, even against the grey of his skin. Over it, a black cravat and a purple, patterned vest add some contrast.

“Would you be willing to accompany me to the BUR? I understand you've worked with them fairly often while you were a cavalier for Captain Phasma, even before you entered your required military service,” Ren says, surprisingly civil.

“What time?” Hux asks, thinking only of logistics.

“Sunlight will be an irritant for us both,” says Ren. “Though, you will be able to walk around any time of day within a week or too.”

“That's reassuring,” says Hux, dryly. Ren's words did not exactly answer his question.

As if sensing this, Ren reddens. Extraordinarily bright for a vampire.

“The Bureau is open long hours... as you... know. So, we will catch a carriage at around seven?” Ren offers.

Hux furrows his brows. “Catch a carriage? Don't you own one?”

“Yes, well,” Ren shifts underneath his heavy gaze. “It sustained heavy damage during the crash. Rey agreed to fix it up, so long as she could borrow the horses as well. I suspect she will truly try to build an obstructor, like you mentioned.” He pouts, acting like the childish man Hux had first met. “What I cannot understand is why she won't use it on her own clangermaid.”

It was quite possibly the longest amount of civil talk the two men had ever had with one another.

Hux smiles, too mean-spirited to be called friendly. “It is better to break your mechanical than one of her own.”

Ren pout returns at that; he leans bodily against the door. “Is that what they teach you at the Academy?” he asks.

Hux hums. “Why yes, of course. A school for _evil geniuses_ should have us think strategically, don't you think?”

“I think it's probably a good thing that Rey was sent to Geraldine's instead.”

“Ah, yes, but I think she would have _flourished_ at Bunson's. We do focus more on engineering and technical aspects which are disallowed to be taught at a women's school,” says Hux.

“Oh, Hux, have you not noticed? She is a woman. I doubt she'd be let into an all men's school,” says Ren, smirking, thinking himself ahead.

“It's not like they ask for _proof_ of your gender, Ren,” says Hux, shaking his head. “So long as you have someone vouch for your status as a student and you have the money, I wouldn't think Bunson's would ask too many questions.”

Ren snorts. “You'd know best.”

“Indubitably. I always do.”

The vampire peels himself off of the door and takes a step out of the room, doing an odd and dismissive little half-bow. “Front sitting room. Seven. Do not be late. Wear... something warm.”

*

He dresses as conservatively as one can when one is about to be judged by a multitude of people, both living and dead alike.

A black dress shirt made of smooth, silky fabric also contains shoulderpads, discreetly adding to his form and making him less slight. He wears dark trousers as well, as dark as the color of his good walking shoes. He wears leather gloves to keep his hands warm against the chill of autumn. His coat, a great and fiery red, stands out too harshly against his skin, but he doesn't have much choice. It is the best visiting coat he owns now that the original one had been destroyed by his own blood.

Ren takes one look at him and shakes his head, scrunching up his nose as if Hux had something terribly offensive. “No.”

Hux sighs, avoiding rolling his eyes. “And what's wrong now?”

Ren steps closer, reaching out with a gloved hand. The delicate lace—of a pitch black variety—has minuscule designs covering every inch of it. He touches Hux's coat collar, feeling the fabric between two fingers.

“This is more of a Spring-time coat, I'd think,” Ren says, tilting his head curiously.

“Well then, I'll just bill Miss Bazine for the cost of a new coat whenever she is found,” says Hux irritably, slapping Ren's hand away.

Ren sighs. “Impossible,” he says, throwing his hands up in mock-surrender.

And then he stalks off, sure to step more firmly on the hardwood ground, stomping out each step. Intentionally. Because he is a _child._

“And just where are you going, Lord Ren?” Hux calls out.

Their carriage, led by Poe and _real horses,_ as he now always seemed put it, waits outside.

They truly don't have time for Ren to stalk off, doing whatever the man pleased! But Ren has not been known as one to be reasoned with.

But he returns, just as quickly, holding a large and warm looking greatcoat, different than the one that Ren had worn the day the near assassination occurred. This one is surely too big for Hux, but the vampire pushes it into his arms anyway.

It's soft, Hux discovers, fingers sinking into the fabric.

“What's this for?” Hux asks, perplexed.

Ren shrugs, trying to be casual, but his tight expression fails him. “I once bought the coat. It ended up being a tad too small in the shoulders for me. And you need a coat. So...”

Hux blinks, taken aback by the odd kindness. Ren gains nothing from it. And yet actions must always come with consequences. Hux blinks again, taking control of himself, stiffening his back. He scoffs. “Hold it,” Hux demands Ren, shoving the wonderful jacket back at the vampire.

Hux shrugs off his old coat—the red monstrosity—and places it upon a coat rack.

Only then does he take the large coat from Ren's hands and pull it on, simply melting in its warm embrace.

“Alright,” says Ren, dipping his head, amber eyes roaming over Hux's form. He gives an approving nod. “We've made Mr Dameron wait long enough.”

*

The Bureau of Unnatural Registry largely made a place for themselves due to more conservative views that lingered about, consistently employing humans and occasionally, when those humans died and had enough soul, their ghosts.

Within the building—something small, like a squatting little house—files on every supernatural and preternatural being in England was stored. Recently, Hux's werewolf cavalier file had been updated, now a file belonging to a vampire drone. As a result, even his identification number had changed. He had yet to receive an updated identification card.

Poe stops them just a short walk from the front entrance.

Anyone could simply walk into BUR's London office. And they often did, carrying complaints and requests with them.

Inside, as they entered, a line stretched out, nearly to the front door itself.

The young man at the front table—wearing the red and white coat of a BUR agent—visibly slackens, face glowing with relief. “Lord Ren, we have been waiting for you!” Three or so ghosts wander about behind him, looking as if they are _attempting_ to help. In the end, the ghosts are not very strong, their physical bodies likely decaying, and cannot do much to aid the young man.

Ren walks up, ignoring glares and hisses from those on the absolutely ridiculous line. Hux follows, doing just the same, head held high.

The young man is human, of no particular talent—reason why he is stuck with the job of a receptionist, typically given to the deceased. His hair is a fashionable honey-blond, done by chemicals, not nature. His face is freckled, left cheek dimpling with his smile. He extends a gloved hand and Ren shakes it.

“My name is Ulysses Dibdin Mussell Jr,” the youth says, the mouthful coming out in a rush, nodding furiously. He extends his hand to Hux as well and Hux finds his handshake to be suitably firm. “BUR looks forward to looking with you. Please continue down the hallway. Take the first door on your right to Office Twelve. Inspector Dickingson is waiting to see you both.”

And just as quickly, they are hurried away from the crowd and poor little Ulysses is swallowed back up by his work.

Office Twelve is not generally used for information briefing, Hux knows. He'd never once been in it before.

Ren doesn't knock before letting himself in, leaving the door open for Hux.

“Hello,” the inspector says, stirring her cup of coffee. It is heavily creamed, but the aroma still wafts about the office. The woman before them is older, older than both Hux and Ren, and very human. Her eyes, a sharp brown, are deeply set, surrounding wrinkles making them only deeper.

“Mr Mussell informed you that I was waiting. Good,” she says, moving a gnarled hand to rest over a file. “I am Inspector Cunally Dickingson, the inspector assigned to work with you on this case.”

Ren nods. “I was told that we would receive information regarding Miss Bazine.”

Cunally nods, pushing forth the file. “Here are approved documents that you may look through. Additionally, it has been deemed acceptable to provide you with Miss Bazine's housekey and permission to look about there.” Cunally's look soured. “I vetoed that decision, but we can't always win, can we?”

“Ah,” Ren says, seemingly unable to find his words.

Hux reaches forwards and gathers the file. It isn't a particularly weighty thing, the more classified documents likely kept out.

“Thank you, Inspector Dickingson,” Hux says, nodding his acknowledgement. “It will be a pleasure working with you.”

She raises a brow but quickly recovers, returning to her impassivity and barely concealed disdain. “Ah, Mr Hux,” Cunally says. “You are used to filing BUR Requests. Good. If you should have need of anything else, please complete and return a Request. We answer in five to ten business days in all cases but those involving ghosts and possessions.”

Ren grunts, unhappily and, worse, _rudely_!

“We are done here,” the vampire says, twirling on his heels and exiting the room in a flurry.

Hux sighs, exasperated once again. “Do we have word on the impostor? She was a preternatural, yes?”

The Inspector stares right through him, eyes hard to read. “We have not approved of sharing information gotten from the impostor just yet. Please check with us in five to ten business days.”

He nods politely at the inspector, her words buzzing around his head like flies. “Have a nice evening, Inspector,” he says on his way out. _Whatever could Inspector Dickingson be hiding?_

He hurries, feeling much like a duck, trying to catch up with Ren. And when he does, Hux is sure to give him a quick smack with the files obtained.

“And what, if I may ask, was that, Lord Ren?” Hux hisses.

Ren does not move his head; he continues, on his war path, past the crowd of people, eyes firmly affixed to the exit. “Mr Poe is still waiting,” he says. “It'd be rude to make him wait any longer.”

“If only you thought that early,” Hux says, rolling his eyes.

Outside, the weather's only gotten cooler. Hux fights back a shiver.

“You know how inspectors and officers are at BUR,” says Hux, fighting for the side of reason once more. “They've always been more conservative. Remember, Lord Ren, they suggested witch hunts and stakings be encouraged by law just two years ago. They even approved of the Staking Constabulary's activity.”

Ren opens the carriage with more force than necessary then pauses, looking to Hux. He tilts his head.

Hux has no reservations. “Careful Ren,” he says, eyes dark and dangerous. “Be careful what you say, lest the Staking Constabulary decide you a treat.” Breath hitching, he steps into the vehicle first and sets about organizing the files granted to them.

Poe opens the window and smiles at them. “That was quick!” the man says, all jolly and the like, despite likely overhearing Hux's heated words.

“Mr Poe, don't take us back to the estate just yet,” Ren says, stretching about the plush seats, leaning next to Hux, examining the papers as well.

“Ah, okay,” says Poe, blinking slowly. “Where shall I bring you then?”

Soon, the horses snort, annoyed at the confusion and delay.

“Just a moment,” he calls before returning his heavy gaze to Hux. “Is there anything of use in there?” Ren asks, warm breath tickling Hux's throat, even through layers of fabric.

“We've her address and the key,” says Hux, flipping papers. “Some information on 'recent' assignments... though the most recent one occurred six months ago. That's quite all, however.”

Ren sighs and presses himself into the seat. The absence of his warm puffs of breath is strange in the moment.

“So, no clues? Is that what you are saying?” Ren says, so gloomy.

“They did not offer us much,” Hux says. “Which is really not too unusual with the Bureau... We might receive word obtained from the impostor, but it'd be a bit of a wait for that...”

“The night is still young,” Ren says, breaking from his melancholy. “We'll head on to Miss Bazine's house.” He knocks on the sliding panel and speaks. “Mr Poe, take us down to Tarabotti Road.”

“Yes my Lord,” the carriage driver says, horses trotting as soon as he speaks.

Hux nods to himself, returning the document to their proper place within the file, preparing to search Bazine's residence.

Surely there would be clues to her disappearance somewhere within the intelligencer's house—perhaps something of more use than a mission given and completed half a year ago in some far off and discrete part to England.

*

The house is truly not a large one, smaller even than the strange, squatting building that BUR itself is stationed. It's... tiny. Sad, even, especially for such a highly positioned woman.

Neither one of them says a word, standing outside of the house.

Hux raises the key and inserts it.

Only one lock—unusual, unsafe, even.

The inside opens up to a well kept parlor. Several fainting couches are placed about the room, tea tables just close enough, a tea set resting upon one. Everything is red and plush and very much overdone.

“Well now,” says Hux, angling his neck, looking about the room. “Isn't this something?”

“Doesn't look like anyone's been here in a good while,” Ren says, dipping his hand onto a table and sliding a finger against the surface. It comes away filthy, though not terribly highlighted due to the black of his gloves.

“And no clangermaids either? Miss Bazine lived a rather simple life,” he hums to himself.

“Lives,” Ren corrects. “We don't know if she's dead.”

Hux shrugs simply, continuing onwards.

Wisps of blue concentrate about the halls.

“Ren,” he calls, turning back. “I--”

His words are cut short.

A hand—so very cold, so very close—clamps down on a shoulder, strong enough to elicit a physical sensation. Hair, cold and damp and floating, brushes past his cheek. “ _And, who do we have here?_ ” the ghost says, hand floating away from the rest of her body.

“Hello,” Hux says, staying very, very still. “My name is Mr Hux. I am with Lord Ren on official BUR business.”

“Hmm,” the ghost hums, the etiquette she learned in life returning to her. She floats away, closer to the ceiling, and Hux is chanced with a better look.

She was not too terribly old when she died but already her body is coming apart. Her eyes, possibly a bright blue in life, are clouded over and misty. Her dress is decisively unfashionable—looking more like a military-inspired gown than anything appropriate for visiting or attending an afternoon tea time. Her hair had once been carefully braided, now it simply does as it wants. Her hair floats away, bringing more of her face to view.

The face of someone he had known while she still lived.

“ _Ah, excuse me. Just where are my manners? I am Formerly Alice Nysorly_ ,” introduces the ghost, not recognizing the man, just as Ren makes his arrival.

 


	4. A Ghost's Lament / The Return of Millicent the Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the 4th part to this, Ren and Hux go to a brothel. Some interactions between the owner are uncomfortable, but nothing really bad happens.

“What... is going on?” Ren asks, lingering at the beginning of the hall. Warily, he meets Formerly Alice's gaze. “I don't suppose you know of Miss Bazine and her disappearance, do you...?”

“ _Bazzy_?” the ghost asks, recoiling. She loses herself, just a tad more—her ear separates from her body and floats off on its own. Formerly Alice remembers her manners and snatches her ear, pressing it back where it belongs.

“Yes, that's the very one,” says Hux, entirely unsure of just what is going on.

Formerly Alice's face stiffens. She crosses her arms over her modest chest. _“Why should I help you?”_

And things fall into place.

Yes, he had seen Alice Nysorly in the company of Bazine Netal for years—he had simply not thought twice about it. Hux had not known either of their inclinations towards women nor had he known of Alice's death.

Perhaps Alice would know something that they did not.

It's better than nothing, he figures. It isn't as if they would get any more information out of the Bureau of Unnatural Registry.

“Really, Miss Alice?” says Hux, stepping forward, taking charge of the situation before Ren could ruin it. “Do you not remember me?” He smoothes down his hair and runs his fingers across the front of his jacket, making himself presentable.

The ghost tilts her head, leaning closer. _“Oh!”_ she says with a jolt, clapping her hands together quietly. _“Armitage! How curious to see you again. Please forgive my state... of afterlife.”_

He waves a dismissive hand. “It is good to see you,” he says, more firmly. “Regardless of your state.”

Ren stares, shocked into silence. “Mr Hux,” he says, head jerking in Alice's direction. “You know her?”

Alice sighs, annoyed at how Ren avoids talking directly about her, speaking as if she cannot hear.

“Yes, Lord Ren. You do not attend many balls and galas, else you too would have met Formerly Alice, while she still lived,” Hux says. “I've always thought you and Miss Bazine were quite close, though I didn't know that you lived together.”

 _“Quite close indeed,”_ says Alice dryly, lips rising to a petulant smile. _“Intimately close, as you would say.”_

“And just where is Bazine?” Hux says, making a show of turning his head to examine the abandoned corridor. “We've been looking for her, Miss Alice. Would you care to help us find her?”

 _“I don't know where my dear Bazzy is,”_ Alice says, sighing deeply and resting the back of her wrist upon her forehead. She looks as if she will faint, chest heaving dramatically.

“Not at all?” Hux prompts. “Anything can help us locate her... You must miss her terribly.”

Ren shoots him a look, amber eyes large and concerned. Ren had always been soft—could never stomach the manipulation and complicated turns of phrase that always went on in both investigations and intelligence collection.

Alice wipes at her eyes, steadying herself. _“Oh Mr Hux, should I call you that? After all, your father is still alive, but it wouldn't be very appropriate of me to continue calling you Armitage either,”_ she sighs deeply once again, looking ever the miserable ghost, apparently making up her mind without Hux's input. _“I do know where she went off last, but...”_

Hux nearly sighs.

There is almost always a condition present, even when he does his best work. There really is no helping it.

_“I will tell you all I know, if, and only if, you bring a ghost wrangler here.”_

“A ghost wrangler,” Ren repeats, stepping closer to Hux's side. “Are you... sure of that?”

 _“Of course I am sure of myself, Mister--? I'm afraid I don't know who you are. Mr Hux, it is nice to see you've made a friend—a handsome one at that!”_ Formerly Alice pauses, touches her chin, keeping it in place. _“My tether has shortened so I cannot seek a ghost wrangler out by out myself. BUR will not dispatch a soulless partly because they'd wanted to keep me and partly because I'm quite sure they don't have one.”_

It does not come cheap to preserve a body so well that a ghost emerges. How curious for the ghost itself to wish for nonexistence.

“You were employed as an intelligencer, then?” Hux asks, correct in his assumption from so long ago. While most women would bring along a vial of perfume, it wasn't so common that a woman would have a specific citrusy scent on hand. She had seemed so airy and sugary sweet when the Academy met the women's school for galas. But he shouldn't have expected anything else.

The ghost finds it funny, letting out a low cackle. _“Aren't all women in this day and age?”_ she says, suddenly looking so very sad.

An intelligencer who's clearly lost her touch along with her life, Hux decides. Why else would she impart such a dense amount of information to them both? It could not be out of some kindness—if she were kind, she'd just tell them where Bazine had wandered off.

“Alright,” says Ren. “We will return with a ghost wrangler.”

Hux shoots him a look. Ghost wranglers are not easy to find.

Formerly Alice claps her hands and smiles, face transforming brilliantly. _“Oh goody. Today? Would you be able to return to me today?”_

Ren shakes his head. “The sun will rise, Formerly Alice. And I am a vampire. It does not mix well,” he admits.

She nods her head, thoughtful. _“Oh, my, a vampire? In my home? Don't you need to be invited in?”_

“I'm afraid your information is not very factual, at least in that respect,” says Ren, behaving as well as he is able.

Alice seems not to mind, only cheerful at the thought of her own non-existance. “ _Tomorrow night, then? Would that work for you both, kind sirs?”_ Formerly Alice says, allowing hope to creep into her voice.

Ren tilts his head in thought. “Perhaps,” he says, not sounding entirely sure. “Mr Hux and I must make a visit beforehand to find you a ghost wrangler. They are unfortunately uncommon these days.”

Formerly Alice throws her forearm across her face, chest heaving—reminiscent of a seduction technique from Mademoiselle Geraldine's, only not very seductive; nothing can be seductive when your body parts are nearly coming off to float on their own. Had she only the physicality of a human body and a fainting couch from the parlor, perhaps it would have worked.

 _“How tragic,”_ the ghost wails. _“In my time, everywhere you looked, a wrangler could be found!”_

“Yes, well, you may say that, Formerly Alice, but... Your time was not too long ago,” Hux breaks off. “Soulless trends have down once again, but really, there were not many to begin with.” He turns to Ren. “What was it... the Organa-Solo's of America? Their family is the single confirmed _family_ of multiple preternaturals. Shame, no metanaturals however. Those are always fascinating subjects.”

Ren grunts but ultimately doesn't answer his question.

Why does he bother sometimes with polite conversation? Hux sighs to himself.

Formerly Alice nods. _“Very well_ ,” she says, sounding so very tired. _“Off with you two then. Return to me with a ghost wrangler or do not return at all.”_

Ren bows, somewhat respectful to the not so recently deceased. “Good evening,” he says. “Or rather, a good morning. We will see one another soon.”

He sweeps out of the room, coat billowing behind him.

How dramatic.

Hux bows too to the ghost and makes his exit.

*

When Poe finally pulls up to Ren's manor, the sun begins to poke its head through the clouds.

Ren hisses, and hurries along to the door, using his supernatural speed to his advantage.

Hux too feels the burn of sunlight against his skin. He pulls his jacket up to cover the sensitive skin of his neck and his head and hurries along.

Poe calls out to them, wishing them well. It would have been kind of him, had he not sounded so amused by the sight of a vampire and his drone, scurrying like field mice to avoid the slightest hint of sunlight.

Hux relaxes once he lets himself inside, the stomping of horses just a bit off and only growing more distant.

His eyes feel sunken in, so very tired.

Ren sits at the dining table, a piece of paper laid out in front of him. He writes quickly, dipping a quill into the inkwell. He bends low over the paper, spilling out over either shoulder. Lit candles are scattered much too close—what a fire hazard!

“Who are you writing to?” asks Hux, coming close. The chill of the night has seeped into his bones. He'd like for nothing more than to curl up in front of the fireplace in his bedroom.

Ren looks up, amber brought out ever more fiercely by the warmth of the candles.

“We need to find ourselves a ghost wrangler. BUR will not help us, even if they did have one to spare,” he speaks simply. “The only vampire I know that keeps a ghost wrangler close is Lady Madeline.”

“Lady Madeline Madrigal?” asks Hux, taking the seat to Ren's right. “Is that the one?”

“The very same,” says Ren, cautious.

“And... you know of her business, yes, Lord Ren?” presses Hux. “It will not look favorably if you go barging into that... place of work.” His face flushes at the very thought of it! How scandalous! “Isn't there some other vampire lord or lady we could badger?”

Ren throws him a sour look. “Time is of the essence, Mr Hux,” he says.

Hux sighs. “Tell me we aren't visiting her brothel. Tell me she has some other sort of estate.”

The vampire goes silent, hand stilling. “Well, she is the proprietress,” he says blankly. “And she has what we need. And we must see her to get what we need.” He speaks slowly, going step by step.

“At what cost?” Hux sighs to himself.

His face, pinkened with immanent shame, will not cool down so soon. If Ren did not care about what the papers printed about his lordship, then Hux would do the same. Who would be left to care when Ren's reputation was soiled? Hux's already was not looking well: a red-haired bastard, discharged from the military and almost dead from an honor killing by his father. There is not much that could save face for him.

Hus sighs again. “I will retire for the ni-- day.”

Ren grunts disinterestedly.

Hux rolls his eyes.

When had he gained _high hopes_ for Ren and his slightly improved behavior...

Slowly, he walks to his bedroom, each footstep resounding against the wooden ground. He rubs at his eyes, so very tired. The day, possibly not his longest, had been terribly draining.

A tiny _meow_ , of all things, is what shakes him out of his half-sleep half-walk.

There, at his feet, sits a long haired orange cat. Her intelligent green eyes stare up at Hux and slowly does she blink, releasing yet another _meow_. The cat presses herself against Hux's leg, twining herself between.

“Millie?” Hux gasps, tears springing shamefully to his eyes.

The cat murps again, as if confirming her identity.

“Y-you w-w-weren't supposed to find her,” Ren says, gasping, puffing, out of breath. His noir nails tap at the wall he leans against. His eyes, amber that had been so carefully lined with kohl, are comically large. “Um, ah, Mr Hux, I can promise I can explain.”

“This _is_ Millicent, yes?” Hux asks, bending low. He strokes between the cat's ears, to her delight.

“Yes,” Ren says, deflating.

“I gave her up three years ago,” says Hux, cautiously.

“You weren't allowed to care for her any longer,” Ren says, remembering those awkward days, when both men had been fully human and the early days that followed Ren's transformation. “But it is highly encouraged that us vampires keep cats.”

Millicent purrs, eyes sliding shut. She looks absolutely content—and a tad bit more plump. But she was not simply chubby, she was large—a tall sort of cat. What Ren had fed Hux's dear baby girl with?

Ren raises his eyes, daring to meet Hux's own. “You are not angry with me?” he asks, sounding much like a kicked dog.

Hux sighs. “For what? Saving my cat?” he bites.

If anything, Hux should thank Ren.

Well, he _should_ —doesn't mean he _must_.

“I am not so angry as I am confused,” Hux says, stroking along Millicent's spine. She is much bigger than she should be. “Just what have you been feeding her?”

It'd be one thing if only she were plump; she also happens to be _large_. She could pass for a wild cat if one did not look too close or even a strange dog! It's a wonder she didn't open the front door and let herself out whenever she felt!

Ren scowls, musing a hand through Hux's neat hair in some sort of retribution. “Quit that,” he hisses. “I fed her well.”

Millicent murps, not leaving Hux's side, finding her original owner to be much more worthy of loyalty.

Ren looks at her, saddened. “Traitor,” he breathes, shoulders slumping.

“She's always liked me more,” Hux snips, picking her up and holding the cat close. She is ridiculously heavy in his arms, much too large. “Oh Millie,” he says, pressing his face against her soft fur. “It's been much too long.”

Ren sighs. “I will transmit the letter. Go to sleep Hux.”

*

A warm hand cups his cheek and slides up, brushing through the tangles of his hair.

Hux wakes up, breathless, flying back to sit against the head of his bed. Millicent, curled up beside him, is hardly disturbed by the movement. Hux grasps the sheets to his chest, heaving with each breath.

“Ren?” he says, squinting in the darkness.

Ren crouches before him, fully dressed, so very close to Hux. “I let you sleep,” he says, as if that is some explanation for his odd behavior.

Moonlight streams in, turning Ren from something immortal to something ethereal. The soft white beams smooth his rough lines, turning them into something graceful, something infused with power.

“Get dressed,” he says. “Anything will do.”

Hux stands, dressing gown hanging about his knees. The chill of the night seeps in from the bottoms of his feet. He shivers quietly, wishing that fireplace hadn't gone out so soon.

He finds a black dress shirt, one that buttoned all the way up to the top of his throat, and pulls it on, trembling fingers working slowly with each button and its hole. He wears the same trousers as he had just the other night—what a _faux pas_ , but Ren had not said _anything_ about it _._

Hux swallows back another yawn, exiting the bedroom.

Ren waits, holding the gifted greatcoat. “You'll need this,” he says, slipping it over Hux's shoulders.

“Hmm.” It's much too early—or much too late?--for Hux to come up with a proper comeback. “Is Mr Poe outside with the carriage?”

“Better,” Ren says, lips quirking up. “While you were sleeping, Rey paid us a visit.”

“Unescorted?” Hux asks, following Ren over the threshold of the house. “Please tell me she was dressed as a man. Or... or... at least that no member of the Daily Harold caught her visiting.”

“I do not think that's very important. She's my cousin,” Ren says with a snort.

“Yes, but does the Daily Harold know?”

Ren snorts, saying nothing, not even as they walk.

The carriage is just how Hux remembers: overlarge and looming, just like its owner. Its horse mechanicals stand in place, tossing their manes and snorting, much like real horses.

Ren ignores his words entirely. “Rey had something made for you as well.”

Hux crosses his arms, huffing indignantly.

The vampire opens the carriage door, allowing Hux in first. He does so, stepping in and taking a seat by the window piece. He moves the curtain, checks that the window is closed.

Ren lumbers in, leaning against Hux's side.

Suddenly he bends, reaching underneath the seats and dragging out a paper-wrapped parcel. Ren shoves it at Hux's chest and gestures, insisting Hux open it himself.

As Hux's half-frozen fingers fumble with the strings, the mechanical horses begin to trot.

The paper comes away rather easily once Hux finishes with the knots.

Only to reveal Phasma's parasol, now improved.

“What's the meaning of this?” Hux asks, fingering the dark material.

Ren shrugs. “Lady Phasma left the parasol to you, a wishing well gift since you could no longer can serve her as a cavalier. While you were unconscious, I gave it to Rey and asked her to fix it up.”

There is a new little switch at the handle.

“What's this?” he asks.

“Rey says that's the Obstructor you requested,” Ren says, invading Hux's space, staring at the delicate silver piece. “Point the parasol's tip in the direction of the mechanical you wish to stop and press the button. It gives you twenty seconds to plot something out.”

“Can it be reused?” Hux asks.

Ren nods. “It's ready to go again within the minute. Rey spent a while testing it out on the horses,” he says sourly. “I fear she does happen have that sadistic streak that both Geraldine's and Bunson's instills in their students.”

“Careful Ren,” Hux says, leaning close, jabbing his foot with the tip of the parasol. “You've just given me a great weapon, my dear, and you can double as a test subject.”

Ren blanches. “I mustn't forget you went to Bunson's as well,” he mutters, lowering his gloomy gaze.

Hux laughs.

Genuinely laughs.

The lines around his face soften. Cheerfully, he even leans over, slapping Ren's knee. “Oh Ren,” he says softly. “I've forgotten how entertaining you can be when you aren't set upon being annoying.”

Ren smiles, as weak as how he takes his tea. “Mr Hux, I beseech you. Remember that fondness for me once we get to Lady Madeline's brothel.”

Hux's face only falls slightly at that.

*

Madeline Madrigal runs a clean establishment. The outside—once an ivory white, so blinding in its whiteness—had been painted a deep red, to match more closely the inside's furnishings.

Though the windows in its face are large and ornate, they give no view. Heavy curtains block both sunlight and eyes alike.

Madeline, a vampire just slightly older than Ren himself, proved to be a peculiar one. She had very few dandies and male drones at her disposal. Mostly, she seemed to prefer the women who came, seeking a chance at immortality.

It helped further more when she ran a brothel and could always use fresh blood.

Ren opens the door and all but leaps from the carriage. “We should think about looking at some dirigibles,” he says, brushing hair away from his shoulders. “I think floating will soon become stylish.”

Hux quirks a brow. “Can vampires stand different concentrations of aether?”

“I should hope so,” says Ren, jokingly offering his elbow. “It would be quite a disappointment if I purchase one of them, only to find myself unable to enjoy being so high up in the sky.”

Feeling brave— _or perhaps it's just the lack of proper sleep getting to him—_ Hux takes the offered elbow, hand soft against the inside of Ren's elbow.

“Well?” he prompts, looking up at Ren. Such a shame they are so close in height; it'd be easy bridging a small gap.

Ren leads them, long legs making a short trip of the distance to the front door. Just outside, two red candles are lit on either side, creating a rather inviting atmosphere.

The door is never quite closed at Lady Madeline's, so Ren lets themselves in.

The walls are golden, wallpapered to death. Fainting couches are spread throughout the front room; Madeline's lady drones and other women make good use of the furnishings, spreading themselves pleasingly, fanning themselves lazily.

A golden haired, beauty marked woman perks up at Ren's entrance.

“Lord Ren!” she says, hands clasping together with delight. She wears a pastel green gown, as if she is early in her seasons and not vying for forever. The lowcut dress emphasizes her modest chest, decorating the decolletage area with daisies and roses—artificial, of course. The cut of her dress does not let her hide the bite marks that litter the inside of her throat and the upper portion of her chest, all bites belonging to a vampire.

“Hello Miss Rosette,” Ren says, transforming into something gentleman-like. He does free his arm from Hux's grip and takes her proffered hand with his left, placing a kiss on the sheer lace glove. “We have official business with Lady Madeline.”

“Oh, Ma-ma!” Rosette says, quickly standing, hands coming up to adjust her long, flowing hair. She brushes nonexistent lint from her gown. She smiles, cheeks rouged heavily. “I will take you to her room.”

She leads the way, wobbling on her high heels. Hux tears his eyes away from the sight.

Madeline's room is quite literally her room—bed and mused sheets and many pillows all shoved in a corner.

Madeline Madrigal lays sprawled across her bed, an arm hooked over a cloaked and hunched figure: the ghost wrangler in question.

Her hair is cropped short—much shorter than any of her women were allowed to. It does not help to hide the scars that litter her vicious face. She wears a men's shirt that does not hide her well muscled eyes and a large, frilly petticoat that only get lost among the ghost wrangler's.

He seems to try to hide right there on the bed, even between Madeline's legs, curling his shoulders and making himself small.

The ghost wrangler wears an overlarge white robe. It's shapeless, losing the young man in it. Over his head, he wears a lace veil, hiding his eyes. What cannot be hidden is the excess ginger hair, spilling out from under the veil. Otherwise, his skin is covered entirely, protecting Madeline from a preternatural touch.

“Lord Ren,” Madeline says, a heavy hand resting on her ghost wrangler's stomach, tucking him closer. “How good of you to visit.” She makes no move to get up off the bed.

“Lady Madeline,” Ren says, taking a bow. “This is my drone, Mr Hux.”

“Hello Hux,” she says, waving a free hand. “And, Ren, how many times have I told you? Please. Call me Ma-ma.”

Ren's frown only grows. “Please, Lady Madeline. Allow us to pay your respects,” he says. “We came for business.”

“Not really the business I typically deal in, or so I heard from your letter,” she says, resting a cheek against the white of the ghost wrangler's robes. The poor thing shivers in Madeline's hold, whimpering softly. “Why would you ever need the services of a ghost wrangler?”

“That should be fairly obvious,” Hux says, letting go of Ren's arm. His hands fall to his sides, missing that warmth. “We've a ghost to deal with.”

Madeline frowns at his, that pleasant smile of hers falling completely from her face. “Lord Ren, you should really discipline your drone. Don't forget, you are within my domain.”

Ren's hand comes to rest on the small of Hux's back, encouraging him to bow.

Stifling a sigh, Hux does so. Diplomacy, he finds, has not truly changed, even now that he deals with an entirely different species.

“My apologizes,” Hux says stiffly.

“He's a new drone,” Ren excuses. “Hasn't got much sleep...”

Vampire drones were so often rumored to sleep as often as cats, napping the days away and only waking up to eat or feed their masters. Hux, unsurprisingly, did not fall into that sort of lifestyle.

Madeline's brow quirks at that. “Oh?”

Ren colors, taking a step closer to the ghost wrangler in question. “Surely you have some terms... We don't want to keep him long. Just to deal with a ghost and we'll return your wrangler to you.”

“Just where are you planning on going with my little Peachtree?” she asks, absolutely predator-like. Her fangs, almost pretty, are put on display with her every word.

“It's official BUR business, Madeline,” Ren says gruffly. “It wouldn't sit well with the humans if I were to tell you everything.”

Madeline places a hand on the back of her wrangler's throat, stroking through cloth. She leans close, whispering something to the weed-like man. Her other arm unwraps itself from where it had been kept, tight against his stomach.

The ghost wrangler scrambles to his feet, standing, swaying. He's nearly as tall as Hux, and so slightly shorter than Ren. Neither had expected that. It's disconcerting.

“Just this week then,,” Madeline says. “Complete whatever task you want. You can return Peachtree to me at His Majesty's gala later this week. Don't let any damage come to him for property damage is impermissible.”

She holds out a hand.

Ren steps close, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small coins purse. He places it into her open palm without a word.

She closes her hand and pulls it back to her body. Madeline opens up the pouch and turns it over, allowing coins to spill out on her bedsheets. She grins toothily, fangs glinting terrifyingly. “That should do it.”

“Then, Lady Madeline, we will see you at His Majesty's Winter Gala,” says Ren, bowing once again.

Hux follows his lead, bowing just a bit more.

Swiftly does Ren turn and lead the way out of Madeline's bedroom, leaving both Hux and the ghost wrangler to follow. The strange youth had made no move to remove the veil from his face to see his surroundings better.

“It's a pleasure to meet a ghost wrangler,” Hux says to the companion at his side. “It's not so common to find your kind these days, now that ghosts too are often employed and wanted, at least until they go bad. Tell me, how did you get into this business?”

The ghost wrangler shrugs helplessly. “Sorry sir,” he says, voice very so docile, so droll. “I didn't quite so pick it. Rather, I was simply taught the trade.”

“Hmm, how fascinating. I was taught that all that was necessary for an exorcism to be complete is a touch from a soulless,” Hux says.

“That's... an option,” the man says, voice quieting as they leave the brothel. His shoes make hardly a noise, even against the rough pavement.

Ren opens the carriage door, allowing both the ghost wrangler and Hux inside the vehicle.

The ghost wrangler sits across them, hands folded neatly in his lap. He keeps his knees close together, shoulders folding in as well. His chin touches his chest, everything so perfectly covered.

He could pass for a ghost as well.

“Lady Madeline did not properly introduce us,” says Ren, ruining the calm mood with his gruff voice. “I am Lord Ren and beside me is my drone, Mr Hux. Just what is your name?”

The ghost wrangler shifts in his seat, hands becoming lax. He wiggles his legs, sticking his hands underneath. “Um, everyone calls me Techie?” he offers.

“Mr Techie?” Hux tries. “Will that work for you?”

The youth nods, overwhelmed by attention paid to him.

“Well then, Mr Techie,” Ren says, stretching obscenely, resting an elbow against his side of the carriage. “I hope you don't mind us stopping so soon. I'd like for us to visit the ghost in question.”

Techie nods jerkily, still making himself small.

Hux almost lets out a sigh. The night, he thinks, will be a long one.

 


	5. A Fearful, Fretful, Fangful Time—Vampires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--in the first section, Ren drinks blood. Also, slight body horror warning: a ghost's body parts come undone and return.
> 
> This weekend will be filled with rapid-fire updates to go with Huxloween's themes!!

Bazine's house is just how they had left it. The only thing that could have changed is the level of dust—which, apparently, increased, if Techie's sneezes were anything to go by.

The ghost flickers into life in the hallway, wisps of hair dancing about her head. She smiles, delighted. _“Hello_!” she cries, approaching Techie, ready to greet her guests like a proper host. _“I am Formerly Alice. You must be the ghost wrangler, yes? I would offer my hand, but--”_ Her fingers float off, separating from her hands.

“A-ah, yes,” Techie says, voice so terribly small.

“Where is your body, Formerly Alice? Your physical one, at least?” asks Hux. He hadn't smelled a thing both times where they visited. And despite her less stable form, her physical body must have been preserved. And yet it was the physical, often decaying, body that the ghost wrangler must deal with to remove the ghost from its haunting.

The ghost crosses her arms, featured suddenly schooling themselves to something stern. _“Excuse me, Mr Hux. That is only for the wrangler to hear.”_

“My apologizes,” Hux murmurs, taking a step back. He cannot find any other proper words. Whatever contraption Alice's body is kept in will likely require all of them to dismantle, regardless of Alice's thoughts on that.

“Yes, well, we'd like to hear the information promised,” Ren says. “It's very important to us that we find Miss Bazine.”

Formerly Alice holds her hand to her chest, ghostly tears glinting in her eyes. “ _Oh Bazzy,_ ” she says, sounding breathless, remembering her lost love. _“Oh my darling... she could never pass up an invitation for tea, even if she was frightened.”_

Hux, twenty-six and scary, could never quite call himself adventurous when it came to his tea. Which begs the question about _just who_ Bazine Netal had tea with and if instead _they_ were the source of the adventure...

“Who sent the invitation?” he asks. “Do you remember?”

Alice sniffles, pressing an equally transparent handkerchief to her leaking eyes. The ghost concentrates on her breathing. _“Oh, oh my,”_ Formerly Alice gasps. _“Forgive me for coming undone.”_

Quite literally in some places. Her body parts seem to float off on their own with startling ease.

 _“Bazzy dearest didn't tell me who she was going to see,_ ” Formerly Alice admits.

Ren snarls. “Formerly Alice, we held up our side of the deal. You shouldn't have tricked us like this. You could have been honest and we would have still searched for a ghost wrangler for you,” he says. Then, Ren goes cold. “Unless you are lying. You know, I can take what I want.”

Techie wrings his hands together, picking at his nails and the skin that surrounds them. He doesn't say a word, hunching his shoulders, making himself more narrow. More of his ginger hair spills out from under the hood and veil he wears.

“Ren,” Hux warns, eyes flickering away from the man they'd borrowed.

Formerly Alice flits away from the vampire, clutching tightly to her handkerchief, holding it like a lifeline. _“Wait!”_ she cries. _“Do not defile this house further. Simply allow me to explain. Bazzy didn't tell me who had invited her—but she did tell me where she was going. And she did mention tea, though I think it was very much an odd place to have a spot of tea!”_

But Ren does not relax.

“How can we trust you after what you've said?” he spits, edging closer to the ghost.

She retreats. Though Formerly Alice is incorporeal, Ren still feels like a threat. The vampire is big—a large body and a larger presence. When his eyes dilate like that, Ren looks more fearsome than some feral beast.

“Ren,” Hux says, speaking slowly and softly. “Are you, perhaps, hungry?”

Ren snarls but does not deny the sentiment.

Hux sighs, growing ever more tired of the predicaments he finds himself in. He unbuttons the jacket, slowly, taking care, and folds it, passing it along to Techie, who takes it with little hesitation, dark fabric looking strange against the whites Techie is dolled up in.

He fiddles with his sleeve's buttons, rolling it up to expose pale, perfect skin—unmarred by sun or sword.

“Here,” Hux says, offering his wrist. “Drink.”

“What? No, no, Hux.” Ren waves a hand between them, entirely dismissive of the idea. “Not hungry.” But his pupils are small, his nostrils twitch. Possibly, his mouth waters; Hux is quite sure of that guess.

Hux thought he might be like that, unwilling to even feed on his drone. So he bends down, retrieving a penknife from the inside of his walking boot and cuts his wrist without pausing. “Careful Ren,” he says, allowing his voice to lilt. “We wouldn't want to spill any blood, would we? Wouldn't it be a waste?”

Before Hux can even dare to blink, Ren stands before him, pressing close, ridiculous warmth seeping into Hux's skin.

Quickly, he brings Hux's wrist to his mouth, licking a stripe over the cut first. Then, Ren bites down, fangs sinking their way into soft flesh. And he sucks, licks, gasps, drinking freely.

Hux's knees wobble underneath him, weakening.

Ren has no thought at all, drinking freely, drinking quickly. His eyes, Hux thinks, have turned a strange shade of red.

“Lord Ren,” Techie gasps, daring to come close, hands fluttering near Hux's body before being scared away. “You're killing him!”

Ren pulls away, mouth bloody. He wraps an arm about Hux's waist, supporting the slender man's weight as the drones finds himself lightheaded. “Sorry,” he says. “I couldn't stop.” Something about Ren feel shaken, broken.

Clumsily, Hux pats at his long, free-flowing hair with his uninjured hand. “If you were hungry,” he says simply, “then you should have told me.”

“Let's set you down somewhere,” Ren mutters, picking Hux up all too easily. Hux winds his arms around Ren's shoulders, feeling the curvature of Ren's broad back, settling down. His heart beats slow and steady against Ren's ear, like someone easily falling asleep.

Ren places him on one of Bazine's couches.

“Stay,” he says, forcing himself to look stern and in the right. “Get some rest,” Ren says, face screwing up in a curious expression.

Hux has half a mind to bark.

Instead, he settles himself against the soft fabric of the couches and lets his mind drift, the weight of Ren's coat simply added on top of his still body.

*

He wakes to find himself tucked in his bed, no longer wearing the dress shirt and trouser of the day. His wrist still aches—but it's been carefully bandaged. And he finds himself so very cold.

Someone knocks on his door. “Hux,” Ren calls. “Have you woken up?”

Hux pushes himself to a sitting position, reclining on a mound of pillows. “Yes,” he manages, voice raspy.

Ren lets himself in, holding a cup of steaming tea and an apple. He sets both down on Hux's bedside table and gestures for Hux himself to scoot over.

Hux quirks a brow.

“You're cold, aren't you?” Ren tries. His shirt is untucked and wrinkled. His trousers look as if they've seen better days. He looks tired as well. His dark hair lies limp across his shoulders. And still Ren is the warmer of the two, though technically a part of the unliving.

Silently, Hux makes space for the vampire.

Ren burrows his way underneath the heavy blankets, seeping warmth between them. Wordlessly, Ren pulls Hux close, letting Hux rest his head against Ren's chest. “Would you like the tea or the apple?” he asks.

“Both,” Hux mutters.

Ren rumbles a laugh, the vibration traveling through his core. “Okay,” he says, surprisingly kindly. “Tea first.”

The little porcelain cup flies into Ren's hand. He passes to Hux, who sips gingerly.

Hux winces, taken aback by the sweetness—lots of sugar, no cream. It could have been worse. “Such a sweet tooth you have, Lord Ren,” says Hux, shaking his head. “You'd think your tastes would be changed after your transformation.”

“Only tea tastes as good as it used to,” Ren admits so freely. It's the kindest they'd been to one another since they first made their acquaintance, nearly five full years ago.

Hux passes him the cup and he places it gingerly on the table.

The apple floats in the air, wedges simply breaking free of the whole. With his black-tipped hand, Ren grabs a piece and presses a corner to Hux's lips, juice dripping down his chin.

Hux takes a bite, chews, swallows.

“So, how did the exorcism go?” he asks. Hux had wanted to see one, but it just hadn't worked out for him. Perhaps, he thinks idly, he'll see one yet.

Ren sours, his neutral expression falling to one of rage and disappointment. “It didn't work,” he spits. “Madeline's ghost wrangler isn't soulless, so nothing happened as planned.”

“Huh?” Hux sighs. Stupidly, his brain rejoices: perhaps he _will_ see an exorcism performed sometime. “How did Lady Madeline not notice?”

“But she did notice. She helped hide the truth from us and from her own people. I'm afraid that Lady Madeline simply wanted to keep his face hidden,” Ren says. He reaches out, curling a hand around Hux's arm. “You should have seen his eyes, Hux. Mechanical eyes. They're not even newer models. He has an _original_ set.”

“How can he even see with all that irritation?” Hux wonders aloud.

“With some difficulty,” Ren spits. “You may not agree with me on this, but I propose we free Mr Techie.”

“Is that allowed?” Hux wonders.

Ren falters. “I can petition His Majesty when we go to his Gala,” he says. “It is well within King Snoke's right to dissolve a contract between any of the vampires he is a blood-father for.”

“What does he look like, this Mr Techie?” Hux asks.

Ren shakes his head slowly. “It's best you see for yourself. Please believe me.”

Hux feels overwhelmingly tired, doesn't even bother asking for proper definitions of those positively batty terms from before. Contracts and blood-fathers and 'he should see Techie's face for himself.' Oh, it's too much. He stifles a yawn with his palm, eyes sliding shut. “What have you done to me?” he asks, eyelids growing so terribly heavy.

 _Do all drones come to feel as exhausted as I after feeding?_ He can hardly imagine it.

Then again, most vampires typically have a half dozen dandies and drones at any moment, sharing the responsibility of feeding their vampire master. Hux was doing the job of many.

Ren presses down on Hux's head, clumsily patting at his mused hair. “Sorry,” he mumbles, pressing another apple wedge to Hux's mouth. “I hadn't eaten in a while... and the smell of your blood was... so very sweet.”

Hux scrunches his nose. “When is the Gala?” he asks. “You never told me.”

“This week.”

“When, Ren. Be more specific.”

A pause. Hux thinks he can still hear Ren's heart beating. Suddenly, he is taken aback by just how _little_ he knows of vampires. The blood lust and the fashion sense, yes, he knows those aspects. But simple biology? The supernatural aspects that came with vampirism: the fangs? the ease of which Ren controls mechanicals? the oddity of the floating tea cups and apple slices? Just when would he hear the answers?

“Saturday evening,” he says, pulling long, thick fingers through a particularly nasty tangle.

Hux shuts his eyes, nodding. “You've seen my clothing. Have I anything suitable to meeting a vampire king? I am more experienced with the dealings of werewolves, who, you find, do not care so much for clothing.”

“Yes, you have suitable clothing,” Ren assures. “Wear the coat I gifted you. It might be cold in King Snoke's citadel. But, regardless, I'm sure there will be some clothing provided. Something will be in your size.”

“Citadel,” Hux repeats, ignoring the rest, shaking his head. He switches thoughts once again. “Oh, anyway, did we get anything useful, at all, from Formerly Alice?”

“She gave us the address that Miss Bazine went last,” Ren says. “It is a graveyard, of all things. She did say Bazine went for tea there? Seems unlikely.” He sighs deeply, sounding very much like he's given up. “Captain Phasma would have found Bazine by now if the Queen had given her this task.”

“Are you moping?” Hux says, prodding at Ren's ribs. “Captain Phasma is a werewolf and should be the representative to deal with werewolf politics. So, it's up to you to represent the Shadow Council as a whole during the investigation when Phasma is tasked with something else. We must all do our duties.”

“Oh, the honorable Armitage Hux, only son of the legendary Commandant,” Ren sighs. “Of course you would get caught up about duty.”

“Did you not realize when I entered the military?” Hux snips, blinking rapidly, eyes so very dry. He sighs, pressing a palm to them. “Listen, Ren, we may as well visit the graveyard and take a look. Clues, any clues at all, could truly help us if we are to have anything of substance to report to Her Majesty. Perhaps Formerly Alice hasn't lost her mind. Perhaps there is some truth to what she's said.”

“Fine,” Ren sighs. “But only after the Gala. It'll take time to travel to King Snoke's citadel.”

“Where is it situated?” Hux asks, fingers tracing patterns in the bedsheets. He eats another piece of the apple and finds himself feeling rather full.

“Now that you are one of us, I suppose it is permissible to tell you,” Ren says, relaxed. It's possibly the most content he's ever been. “It is located on an island off the coast of England.”

“How general... will you be any more specific than that?”

“As north as Nottingham, and then eastwards.”

“And how do you suggest we go there?”

“Usually, I commandeer a boat,” Ren says.

“Really, Ren? You? Stealing a boat? Somehow I can't picture it,” Hux laughs, finding the very image quite hilarious and typical of the man. He truly hadn't changed beside the fangs and the extended lifespan.

He pouts childishly, turning on his side.

Hux's body nearly chases the source of heat. He scolds himself for it.

“This time, there's been an offer from Lady Maz. She's bought a large dirigible and is offering passage for any vampire, drone, or dandy that should like to attend,” Ren says. “I suspect it'll be the largest gathering of vampires as of yet because of her act.”

“Ready to test your dirigible hypothesis then, Ren?” Hux teases. If the vampire finds himself sick of the aether, Hux will be graced with the sight of Ren humiliating himself.

“Oh, absolutely,” he says, playing along. “But I'm afraid we aren't going too high into the aether, so we won't actually get to test it out. Anyway, her dirigible will take off tomorrow.”

Hux shuts his eyes. “Oh Ren,” he sighs, preparing to stand. He pulls away from the delight that is Ren's furnace of a body, shifting the piles of blankets away from his lap. “We should be packing right about now.”

“You're tired. So rest,” the vampire says simply. He lays down in the bed, not moving an inch. He makes a formidable obstacle. “I'm tired as well. I could sleep for a century.”

Hux shakes him by the shoulder, roughly, sighing to himself. “ _Don't_ , you insufferable man,” he hisses. “Come now, we must prepare ourselves for _your_ Gala.” He sighs once again, feeling his age.

He clambers over Ren, ignoring the way their bodies touch, and stands on the floor. He wobbles, slightly, before finding himself.

“Come now,” he sighs.

The vampire stands, supernaturally quickly, coming to rest at Hux's side, silently supporting help. He's strangely doting, perhaps due to the blood that now warms his belly.

“Do you have enough hat boxes for your things?” Hux mutters, starting to walk. He must make quite the sight: wearing only a loose dressing gown, hair sleep-mused, and barefoot. But they do not have much time.

“Yes, of course,” Ren protests. And then, “I don't wear many hats.”

“Yes, but for your smaller things? Your gloves, belts, shoes? Any sort of small weaponry?” Hux shakes his head as Ren looks lost. “Where did you think they went?”

Ren snorts, as if Hux is speaking mad. “I didn't put them anywhere. I put on my formalwear, got in the commandeered boat, and went on my way.”

Hux fans himself, rolls his eyes.

Never had he been so horrified to hear of Ren's escapades!

*

It's only after looking for half of the day they had left does Hux find and assemble all of Ren's luggage and hat boxes. He packs for the three of them as well—though it isn't as if Techie has much to speak of at all.

“You know,” Hux speaks to Techie, lowly, conspiratorially. “I was a graduate of Bunson's Academy. My major focus was on mechanicals and engineering. Lord Ren told me of your situation. I don't have many tools on me just yet, but a friend is coming over with the rest of them. I can take a look and do some quick fixes with what I have and tell you what I can do.”

Techie shifts, grabbing handfuls of his white robe. The lace falls heavy over his eyes, over his face, disguising anything that would look out of the ordinary.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks softly.

“Doing what?” Hux asks. He's gone soft—uncharacteristically kind to this unfortunate stranger.

“You speak to those _bloodsuckers_ and you're not afraid,” Techie spits, balling his fists. His whole frame shakes. “You speak as if they could not kill you. You speak, unafraid. You speak as if you are still _free._ ”

 _Venom_ brims from each word of Techie's. How many years had he repressed such immense hatred for the supernatural beings?

“What do I have to fear from Ren?” Hux says softly. “I've known him for several years, even before--” he gestures to his throat, the area covered by his shirt, “--all _this_.”

Techie shakes his head. “I thought Bunson's boys were supposed to be decisively anti-supernatural.”

“We've grown a tad more progressive, enough to be called neutral on the matter,” Hux admits. “Having a supernaturally backed army and supernaturally funded inventor guild does come with its advantages.”

Techie pulls back his veil. The skin surrounding his mechanical eyes is reddened, inflamed. His synthetic irises are much too large, too owlish. They whirl with each movement of the eyes. “But they can be cruel too.”

Techie face looks eerily like Hux's own—eerily like the face of Brendol Hux.

“Cruelty, you'd find, is not exclusive to the supernatural,” Hux assures, bitterness wallowing in his throat.

Techie ducks his head, pulling the veil over his eyes.

One by one, Ren had brought the luggage to the paid carriage with the help of Poe while Techie and Hux had stood about chattering.

“Mr Hux, Mr Techie,” says Poe, clapping well calloused hands together. “We're just about ready to set off.”

Hux tilts his head, angling towards the cart. “After you, Mr Techie. I'll take a look at your eyes in the carriage.”

The scam of a ghost wrangler scowls underneath pretty lace and nods, accepting this as his fate. His soft slippers pad against the ground, hardly making a sound.

 _He could make a good intelligencer_ , Hux can't help but think. _If only he had been trained._

*

Though London had become a hotspot for vampires and werewolves alike, Maz had always enjoyed her sense of privacy. A vampire of some two thousand years, she is small and shriveled. Ancient. Or so Hux has heard.

“Whatever you do,” Ren advises, just as the carriage rolls into the beginnings to her grounds. They're still a while off from her house. “Don't stare.”

Hux taps out a pattern on the plush cushion underneath him. “At what?” he asks.

Ren makes a face, inhaling deeply. He looks much like a guilty child. “Anything,” he stresses, opening his amber eyes wide, looking absolutely _terrified._

Maz's home has not always existed in England. No one is quite sure where the vampire is from—and no one is quite sure on how to ask. Her current domain, outside of all major cities, could pass itself as a small medieval settlement—of lords and ladies and serfs.

And above the grandiose castle-like building, just above a statue shaped like the vampire in question, a dirigible floats.

Supported by two balloons, the ship in question looks as if it could travel by sea, if all else failed. Its hull is entirely wooden. NOAH'S ARK is written on its siding in golden script.

“How ironic,” Hux snorts, peeling away from the carriage window where he had pressed. Now, they're closer to the line of proceeding supernatural, dressed in their finest floating clothes.

Ren scowls at him. “What's ironic?”

“Noah's Ark,” Hux says, leaning back against the cushioning. Techie's head ducks up in his direction. Hux assumes that he is staring. “And yet you can't step foot in a house of God, Ren, lest you wish to burn.”

Ren shakes his head, rolling amber eyes. “Lady Maz has always had... a sense of humor about these sorts of things,” he offers.

Hux snorts. “I can see.”

It's there on Maz's estates that they are flagged down by two hardy looking men. Both are shaven headed, black skin almost tinted blue. They're dressed in fine suits, well tailored to fully accentuate their muscular forms.

The carriage comes to a stop at their behest.

One of the dandies runs up to the carriage window. Hux opens it, letting in a crisp little breeze.

“Good evening all,” the man says, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Oh, Lord Ren, good to have you. I am Teddy and I'd be glad to help you all tonight. Please, come out of the carriage. We few of Lady Maz's dandies will help bring your stuff into the dirigible.”

Ren pops open the door to the carriage and jumps out, landing stiffly on his feet. Poe laughs from the driver's box, already knowing of Ren's terrible stubbornness.

“Mr Teddy,” Hux greets, accepting his hand and helping himself down. His injuries—though fully healed from Ren's blood—are still at the back of his mind and Hux finds himself cautious. “I suspect we will have no need for assistance.”

Ren floats the luggages and hat boxes, using that strange vampiric magic of his.

“Oh, I see,” says Teddy, all in good spirit and with mirth. He offers a hand to Techie, who sits, curled up within the wagon. “Mr--?”

“Mr Techie,” Hux introduces, doing so quickly. “Please meet Mr Teddy. Mr Teddy, Mr Techie.” Vampires and the like could be strange about unknowns.

Teddy smiles kindly, much like how one would smile to a particularly shy child. “Allow me to help you then, Mr Techie,” he says softly. “A ghost wrangler, yes? What a mighty frightful profession you must have! My sister had thought about entering that vocation.”

The ghost wrangler in question accepts his hand down, landing much less gracefully than both Ren—who had supernatural reflexes to aid him—and Hux—who is simply a born and bred Hux.

“What happened to your sister then?” says Techie, being so dreadfully forward, bordering on rude.

It doesn't phase the man in the slightest. Being a drone for quite the eccentric vampire must have prepared him well for any situation, any breach of protocol or etiquette.

Teddy smiles, eyes sliding shut. “Ah, marriage,” he says. “It's a common end for women with hopes and aspirations, especially in this country.”

Techie nods and says no more— _thankfully_ enough _._

“We'll be going,” Ren says. “I am sure we can find our rooms on our own.” He waves off both Teddy and Poe, who had enjoyed the dramatics all too much.

Soon, he'll diverge the events of the day to both Finn and Mitaka; those slimy little _nerfherders_ just happened to want to know everything—all without writing to Hux himself via crystal! A terrible precedent for communications itself, to rely entirely on Poe and his gossip!

Hux falls behind Ren, Techie at his side. The parasol hangs on to his wrist, looking like a somewhat out of the ordinary fashion accessory for a man. But no one will question it greatly—not when surrounded by vampires.

For once, he's thankful for the obscurity the supernatural creatures lend him.

Ren leads the way, much like a knight would, passing by other vampires and drones and dandies with no hesitation. He boards the dirigible following all of their floating things, leaving Hux and Techie with no option _but_ to follow. And for a creature that had never been on one of the strange airbound contraptions, he navigated its wide halls quite well.

He comes to a halt before a half closed door. An envelope has been stuck in between the door itself and the frame.

Ren pulls it out, finding his own name scrawled in beautiful script.

He opens it, ripping the lavender envelope to shreds, and finds both a letter and a key.

Ren unlocks the door, throwing it open.

“Ready for the journey?” he asks his companions, twisting a finger in the air, allowing all of the possessions to enter their rooms first.

*

The vampire Maz is rather well known by the public.

Every time she graces London with her presence, the newspapers have a field day with all the eccentricities about her. She has never— _ever_ , in all of London's history—kept up with trends, something awfully unusual for a vampire.

But Hux, for all records, had not known anything about her appearance.

So when the small, wrinkled creature lefts herself into their rooms, Hux freezes in place and turns his eyes to Ren, not paying _any_ respect to the being before him.

“Hello,” she says to them all, wearing men's clothing much too big for her form.

Ren comes to his feet, towering above her. And then he falls to one knee in an awkward gesture of respect. “Lady Maz,” he says, reverence apparent in his tone.

Maz smiles, clearly used to Ren's flair for the dramatic. Her two sets of fangs glint in the candlelight. “Enough of that,” she teases. “Introduce me to your guests.”

Ren turns tilting his head.

Hux comes forward, bowing. “A pleasure to meet you,” he says, lowering his eyes. _Don't stare_ , Ren had said. _At anything._ “My name is Hux. I am serving as Lord Ren's drone.”

“Serving as Lord Ren's drone,” Maz repeats to herself. She reaches up, fiddling with her goggles, big eyes becoming bigger through the thick glass. “What a strange way to phrase it.”

Crudely, she claps a rough, ungloved hand against Hux's shoulder, surprising him with her strength.

“You either are a drone or you're not,” Maz says, smiling toothily.

She turns her eyes to Techie. And then the small, shrunken, strange woman steps forward, walking around Techie, staring at all angles.

“Huh,” she breathes. “Don't you belong to Lady Madeline? She's not on this ship.”

Techie nods quickly, bobbing his head and lace. “Y-yes my lady,” he says, voice soft and high. “I am aware. Lady Madeline... lent me out to Lord Ren.”

Maz raises a brow, unable or unwilling to hide her amusement. “Oh, isn't that something?” she says.

Rather quickly does she lose interest in the awkward and gangly little ghost wrangler. “I am glad you found your rooms with little issue,” Maz says, nodding her head at Ren. “Though perhaps next time allow my drones to help.”

She lets herself out, waving a small hand, and even—outrageous!--winking at the three.

And Hux sighs, seating himself on one of the fainting couches, leaning back against the wallpapered walls. They were covered in dozens of tiny, printed flowers—absolutely hideous, especially by vampiric standards.

“Ren?” he calls.

The vampire hums.

“She had two sets of fangs. Now what is _that_ about?”

Techie gasps, covering his mouth with a gloved hand. “You don't know?” he gawks, as if Hux should have known _all_ about vampire biology before boarding the massive dirigible.

“The second pair of fangs are called 'birthers.' Not all vampires have them,” Ren explains, tapping at a corner of his mouth. “I don't.”

“They're... not necessary for creating drones, I take it?” Hux asks.

Ren snorts—annoyed or overly fond, he cannot tell. “Well, no. You just need to drink a vampire's blood to become a drone. It doesn't require the venom from birthers.”

“Venom too?” Hux snorts. “I've a feeling that Sundowner education is severely outdated.”

“I'm afraid so,” Ren simpers.

“Mr Hux,” says Techie, mechanical eyes whirring loudly underneath the decorative veil of his. “You have Sundowner status? Doesn't that mean you are allowed to kill supernaturals if they act out of line?” Hux pretends not to hear the note of hopefulness that grows within Techie's voice.

“Only if a supernatural being breaks a law am I allowed to intervene,” Hux says. Then falters. “Ah... I _was_ allowed to intervene.”

“Your Sundowner status was revoked?” Ren says, brows furrowing. “That's the first I've heard of it.”

Hux smiles grimly. “My Sundowner license was bestowed along with my military status. Since I've been declared unfit to serve our country, my license was declared null and void as well.”

Techie slumps, shoulders curling forwards. “Oh,” the wretched little man sighs, collapsing onto a different couch, long, lithe fingers curling around elaborately embroidered pillows. Techie hugs one to his chest, as if seeking comfort from the object.

Ren seats himself at the tea table, ringing a bell. Shortly, if everything is in order and all mechanicals are in order, a clangermaid will roll by the room with a pot of hot tea and enough cups for the occupants of the room.

“But you recovered from your injury,” Ren protests, shaking his shaggy head of hair. “I don't understand why it'd be so difficult to let you return to your service.”

Hux rolls his eyes, finding himself so tired. “It's surprising how well the rumors were kept from spreading. I'm glad that even vampires are left unawares.”

Ren huffs, rolling his eyes.

The clangermaid lets itself into the room, tiny robotic arms laden with a tea set and crumpets. It says nothing—unable to, for it is an older model—and sets the delicate finery down onto the table.

Ren snatches up a cup and pours himself a splash of tea, sure to add in copious amounts of both milk and sugar.

Acting as host himself, he pours a full cup of tea for Hux and nods his head at the ghost wrangler, all curled up in some miasma of self-pity. “Hey, Techie, how do you take your tea?”

Techie pokes his head up from the pillow, arms loosening around it. “No milk... sugar?”

He doesn't specify how _much_ sugar and Ren surely goes overboard, stirring three whole teaspoons of the stuff.

Hux stands up and makes his way to the tea table, sitting directly across from Ren. He doesn't say a word, but picks up the tea and drinks. It doesn't taste like anything Hux would normally drink—tasting vaguely fruity and flowery—and it leaves him puzzled on its origins.

Ren brings the tea cup to his mouth, slurping rather loudly—how barbaric for the lord! He pulls the cup away, licking at the sugary mess that had stuck to his bottom lip.

And Hux cannot bring himself to draw his eyes away from the movement. He swallows another sip of tea, to help him with the problem of his parched mouth. “So, how many days floating?” Hux asks.

Ren looks at him, smiling viciously. “Oh, closer to two, I'd say. Why? Worried about it, Mr Hux?”

Hux rolls his eyes. He had thought Ren had put their old childish bickerings behind them. “Why, yes I am, Lord Ren. I am afraid that you do not have enough floating skirts for this journey.”

Ren's smirk falls, leaving him looking much like a grumpy little kid.

Hux pours himself a new cup of tea, a reward for his victory in yet another verbal spat.

He places it back down, rejuvenated. “Now then, Mr Techie, let's look at your eyes once again.”

 


	6. A Gala of Vampires and Spilt Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at the ball, there is some blood and some humiliation.

It does take two dreadful days of floating before Snoke's island comes into view. Two days of floating spent below the deck, largely in their given rooms, away from the aether, the breeze, and the sights: the three best things that came with travel by dirigible, or so Hux had read.

So when the ship begins to sink, slowly coming closer to ground, Hux's heart rejoices. But being a Hux-man, you would hardly be able to tell the difference to an indifferent Hux and a joyful one.

“It's a bit of a walk from here,” Ren tells them both, leaning to look out of the window, frowning, just slightly. “I'd wear your best walking shoes, Mr Hux. But, Mr Techie, can you manage a trek in those?”

“Yes,” the ghost wrangler assures. “I will be fine.”

The look on Ren's face is not one of someone particularly pleased with the answer he's received. “Very well,” he sighs, as if dealing with some fussy child.

Hux is unsure of what to expect and so he dresses for several occasions. The red dress shirt he wears is high necked and decorative around his throat. He only enhances the area with an expertly tied cravat, copying the waterfall style Mitaka so preferred. He wears a decent pair of trousers, but one of the older ones so that there would be less to pity if they were ruined in the course of the night.

To tie it up, he pairs a set of walking shoes and his—well, now his—parasol, in case of both emergencies and of sunlight.

It's Ren who pulls the black greatcoat over Hux's shoulders, big, warm hands heavy against Hux's narrow frame. “It's cold,” he says simply, ignoring the look he's given.

Hux presses the tip of the parasol against the ground. “Well now,” he says, looking them over. “It's about time to begin the trek, isn't it, Ren?”

Ren shrugs his massive shoulders, pulling on a raggedy jacket of his own. “I suppose,” he says, quietly, eyes not quite all there. He waves a hand in a grandiose gesture, saying nothing as all the luggage and hat boxes begin to float, as if they weigh nothing.

*

It is a bit of a walk to Snoke's citadel, as Ren had warned.

Maz hadn't brought carriages and the like on her dirigible, but Hux finds himself sorely wishing she had. His walking shoes,though adequate in urban London, seem not to be adequate enough on the rather rural and overgrown island

The island where King Snoke apparently lives and reins is quite deserted. Trees bend awkwardly at the weight of their branches and leaves, much like gentlemen when they first met their rulers. The night darkens everything precariously; beside him, Techie stumbles. There is something about the untamed wilderness that simply doesn't settle right with Hux. There is something about it that makes him feel as if he is watched.

But he does not dare express the thought.

The other vampires that walk alongside them in sombre procession do not look as odd as Maz herself.

Mostly, he finds himself surrounded with ashy skinned creatures—skin colors of various greys, eyes seemingly _glowing_ in the darkness. They are dressed respectfully and fashionably, just as one would expect from vampires, even during the awful walk.

It's mostly drones and dandies who do the heavy lifting, carting the vampires' luggage forth. It seems that Ren is really the oddball—using the strange magic to carry his things and the things that belong to Hux.

He really must ask about it sometime... Hux balls a fist, fingers digging into the flesh of his palm.

Hux takes a step forwards, hurrying himself to match Ren's confident march. “How much farther until we reach the citadel?” Hux asks, trying to make himself and his tiredness discreet.

Ren grunts, amber eyes sliding to the side to glance at Hux. “We're approaching,” he says. “Just five minutes more until the citadel comes into sight.”

And come into sight it surely does, once the trees begin to sparse.

The citadel is a gloomy work of architecture, with no windows on its front face. Curious, but unsurprising, considering its dweller is a centuries-old vampire. Less understandable, the outer walls are built entirely from grey bricks: a sad, ugly sight, especially when surrounded by such wildlife.

“Is that it?” Hux murmurs, unable and unwilling to hold back his disgust. He'd held much higher expectations for the _king_ of the vampires—and had been so terribly let down. Even Maz's home had been so much more beautiful.

Ren throws him a pointed look. “You must show King Snoke respect,” he says, hushed and nervous, for Ren could never hide any emotion that he experienced. “He is my blood-father and will want to meet my first drone.”

“You should have thought of that before turning me, Lord Ren,” Hux chastises.

“I am sorry,” Ren snips. “I will remember that next time your life is at stake.”

“I would wish for something _else_ to be at stake,” Hux mutters, looking away, chin tilted upwards in his stubbornness.

Techie laughs quietly, hiding his smile behind both lace and a hand.

Ren growls at him, much like an animal. Not for the first time, Hux finds it more appropriate if Ren had become a werewolf instead.

The doors to the citadel have been thrown open, inviting the assembled vampires into a hallway. The walls, like the outside, are a terribly boring and horrendously bland grey. No paintings or decorations cover the walls, only driving the emptiness forth. How could a vampire live for so many years in such a boring environment?

Several strange people stand before them, covered from hand to foot, faceless helmets covering their heads. They nearly blend into the scenery, very much grey and boring like the citadel they reside in. They could pass, almost, for knights, had they been wearing armor.

“Lord Ren,” Hux mutters, leaning closer to his vampire. “Just what are those?”

“Ah. Those are Snoke's drones,” Ren answers, lightly and easily, as if the helmets do not scare him. Perhaps, Hux thinks, Ren himself owns a helmet himself somewhere.

“I do hope no one is expecting me to wear one of those. I may be your drone, but I have my dignity,” he snips.

“Don't worry,” Ren says, not alleviating his worries at all.

Hux sighs, so very tired of all the ridiculousness.

One drone peels away from the wall, stepping forwards to reach Ren. Its mask is a chessboard mess. It bows, deeply. “Lord Ren,” it says, voice indistinct and muffled. “I will take you to your rooms. You've brought your drone, yes?”

“Yes,” Ren says, large, gloved and overwarm had reaching out to touch Hux's back.

“We will leave Lady Madeline's boy here for her to pick up,” says the drone, deciding for them all.

Techie trembles, nodding, accepting his fate.

“Follow me please, Lord Ren,” says the chessman, taking large steps forwards, leaving the two to follow. The drone is not particularly tall or short, totally indistinct with the clothing it wears.

The halls only continue in their awful greyness.

The walk seems to go on for an age, the drone leading them close to the center of the citadel.

Until the drone stops before a door.

“Here are your rooms, Lord Ren,” the drone says, bowing once again. The door opens, seemingly on its own, revealing a front sitting room. “A clangermaid is connected to the room and will be able to retrieve anything you need. The closets are filled with clothing that is to your sizes. Utilize this if you wish.”

The drone walks away, back perfectly straight and each step perfectly even. There is something peculiar about the drone, but Hux is left unable to tell.

Ren guides the luggage to land in several piles in the front sitting room. The room itself is nothing special. A clangermaid rests, powered down, in a corner. The walls are a lighter grey than those in the halls. The floor—a solid mass—is pitch black, like tar.

Hux wrinkles his nose in disgust but says nothing.

“Lord Ren,” he says, “do--”

Ren interrupts him, amber eyes nearly crimson in the light. “Don't,” he says, quickly, quietly. He pulls off his gloves and puts them in his pockets. “We are alone, Hux. Just call me Ren.”

Hux shakes his head. _Why did I receive the most petulant vampire in the world?_ “Fine. Ren. Am I to have my own bedchamber? I notice the drone did not wish to speak to me.” He does not mention the word _sizes;_ had clothing been made for him as well?

Ren frowns. “Just a second,” he says, already off to inspect the rooms.

Hux would not like to share a bed or a room with Ren. He had enough of the man for now. It can't be healthy, he thinks, staring into those deep, soulful eyes all of his days. Hux needs a rest; he doesn't have much of a soul to save if popular sayings were to be listened to.

“Hux, come over here.”

And Hux does so, hating himself. “What is it?” he demands, hating how his voice softens when speaking to the insufferable man.

Ren stands in front of two doors, both doors that led to bedchambers. They've been pushed in, revealing the two rooms. The larger room, on the left, contained quite possibly the largest bed Hux had seen in his short life.

The idiotic, insufferable, and, worst of all, _incomprehensible_ man nods his head towards it. “That'll serve as your bedroom,” Ren says, not explaining just how he determined it.

Hux's pride proves an obstacle. “I won't have you pity me,” he spits.

Ren frowns, sadness always so overwhelming when painted by his eyes. “There's... a clawfoot tub in the bathroom. Hot water. King Snoke provides very well,” he offers, trying to gain Hux's favor for some reason. It's mystifying, the way Ren tries to placate him.

Without waiting for Hux to say anything—without waiting for Hux to compose himself—Ren jerks a finger, Hux's luggages and hat boxes flying into the room at quite dangerous speeds.

“There,” Ren says, smug, as if he's done something good. “You're all settled.”

Hux sighs and gives up. With this victory, all Ren's gained is a smaller bed and perhaps a less immaculate bathroom. “Fine,” he says, rubbing at his face. “Ren, I think I shall retire for the day. Wake me up if the need arises.”

“Yes, sure,” he says, not sounding too interested in what Hux says. Ren floats his own luggages towards the bedchamber he had chosen for himself. “We'll go through the closets later and decide what to wear to the gala. I'd like for us to compliment one another.”

Hux swallows back a yawn. “Very well,” he says, stepping into the room. Silently, he begins to close.

“Wait,” Ren says.

And Hux freezes, looks to him.

Ren looks away, the high points of his face looking much more pink and lively. “I would say good night, but it's morning. Sweet dreams,” he offers instead.

“Alright.”

Hux closes the door, sighs.

*

Ren wakes him up, knocking on the door. “Hux,” he calls, much too loudly for Hux's sleep-addled brain. “Are you decent?”

Underneath the white sheets of the canopy bed, Hux wears a dressing gown and his underthings. “Not quite,” Hux calls back, making no move to exit the delightful heat that the bed had enraptured him in.

Ren sighs, muffled through the door. “But you aren't naked?” Ren asks, sounding awkward and his age.

“No, I am not.”

And that proves to be decent enough for Ren, who pushes open the door much too loudly. He waves a hand, candles and oil lamps springing to light, the terrible brightness assaulting Hux's eyes. With another wave, Ren creates a fire in the fireplace, which Hux does not mind nearly as much.

In his other hand, Ren is laden with clothing.

“My room has the closet with clothing meant for you,” Ren tells him. He lays the outfits down upon the bed, right over where Hux's legs rest. Much of them are colored brightly.

Hux snorts, sneering at the gaudy red of one of the assembled suits. “I am not wearing that,” he spits.

“Good,” Ren says, deeply relieved. “It would clash terribly with your hair, arguably your best feature... and it would wash you out dreadfully. Though, you've always been pale.”

For once, he sounds much like a vampire.

Hux is nearly impressed.

Ren points at a baby blue outfit. The shirt is the lightest, made up some soft material. Surprisingly, it sports a low neck, especially for a man. The waist looks pinched, and a belt had been provided with it to arrange the necessary pinching.

He can't really do anything but scowl.

Ren secedes, throwing the garment to the floor. “Yes, well, better not try your luck in a hive filled with vampires, I suppose,” Ren mutters, mostly to himself. “You're _my_ drone.”

“What color will you wear, Lord Ren?”

The vampire shrugs, quite uncaring for his own dress. Finally, he offers a much more acceptable outfit for Hux himself.

The entire ensemble is done in a delicate cream color. The shirt is high necked—ideal when one is surrounded by a swarm of bloodsuckers. Its long sleeves come down to ruffles and poofs, best to disguise Hux's thin frame. Over, a vest is provided, done in the same lovely cream. The trousers balloon slightly from hip to thigh, soft decals done on its side. Even cream socks had been provided to match the overwhelming softness and sweetness of the look.

“I'd look like a creampuff,” Hux says instead.

“A sweet one,” Ren says, staring perhaps too longingly at the clothing.

Huxes are not allowed to be sweet.

But Huxes are also certainly not allowed to be injured in battle or form dalliances with handsome vampires or, especially, not enjoy being fed from by said vampire.

So Hux might as well break another rule; truly, he's broken plenty.

Hux sighs though, never one to look as if he's the one to give in. “Perhaps that'll do,” he says, downplaying his excitement to feel such fine fabrics against his skin. “What color will you wear? Black or perhaps a midnight blue?”

Ren grunts, taking quick steps to the closet. He opens it easily, rummaging about. He finds a mainly blue ensemble waiting, something like Hux had suggested.

Though the shirt is white and rather plain, everything else cannot be described in that way. The cravat and jacket match, both tar and deep blue. A handkerchief too is included, the same color as cravat, _KR_ lovingly embroidered upon it. The pants are rather form-fitting, matching that same bright blue used before.

Ren holds out the shirt, pressing it to his broad chest. “A cravat,” he mutters, pressing his chin against his chest, as if trying to get a good view of where the cravat itself should go. “Don't know how to tie one,” he admits. “I don't think the clangermaid would either.”

He shakes his head, pitying the fool before him. “And you're how old?” Hux says. “Oh, you Americans.”

Ren scowls. “I am just as old as you,” he says.

“Oh, but it doesn't count. You were turned into a vampire,” Hux says, waving a hand in a dismissive gesture.

“That doesn't mean I'm not aging!” Ren yips, face glowing with heat. “I-I'm not going to stay twenty-six forever!”

“You're right,” Hux says. “Younger, even. Were you not twenty-four when you were turned? I think you should have been turned earlier, even. Staying a child forever would be more appropriate for someone like you.”

Ren glares at him, vitriol in his eyes, but the harsh look does not look so long.

*

It's evening when they are escorted to a ballroom by one of Snoke's drones—quite possibly the same one from before. With their muted clothing and face-concealing masks, it is quite difficult to tell them apart. Even their voices sound the same, all the terribly dull and expressionless.

The hallways, though massive, are empty. Horrifically, terrifyingly empty. It all just emphasizes how exorbitantly _large_ castle Snoke has for himself and his almost silent sentinels.

They do not come across another guest until they come into the ballroom, walls opening up to an awfully large room. At its center, is a throne—the throne upon which Snoke sits.

The vampire is not centuries old.

He must have lived through a _millennium,_ and become a sad, twisted and gnarled man. His skin is as grey as the walls surrounding them, scars littering his sad little face. Snoke's eyes are deep-set and dark, made of shadows. His emaciated arms rest upon the arms of the throne, tubes sticking into them, red blood entering Snoke and sustaining him.

They are not the first guests to arrive, but Ren catches Hux by the wrist.

Vampires and drones and dandies gather about the room, dressed in their finest and sparkling like gems. Laughter and chatter spills across the room. The party is nearly in full-swing; a few clangermaids have been instructed to play music, delate instruments held in sturdy arms.

But Hux cannot look at anything other than Snoke himself.

Hux tears his eyes away from the horrifying sight that is the King of the vampires within Britain's empire.

“Come. I must introduce you to His Majesty,” Ren says, leaning close so that he is heard over the din of idle chatter.

Ren's unnatural strength is once again proved a hinderance; without another word or bit of discussion, Hux finds himself dragged through the crowd, all elbows and knees, feeling flesh bump against him.

Vampires flit around, wine glasses held between nimble fingers filled, without a doubt, with blood. Their drones and dandies follow behind them, quieter, wearing clothing that revealed much of their neck and their bitemarks. Snoke's drones blend in to the background, hands pressed together, watching, listening, waiting.

And yet one group stands out.

Humans, unaffiliated with solitary vampires, sit at a table together, a wine bottle set in the center of the table. The men's clothing is accented with splashes of green, especially upon the brims of their top hats. And little ladybugs crawl upon the table, much like the homicidal ones that had attacked both Queen and advisors alike.

“Ren,” Hux whispers, pressing close against his vampire. Ren's warmth blossoms outwards, comforting. “Picklemen. They're here.”

Ren cranes his head, glancing briefly at them. “Yes,” he confirms. “They're sponsored by King Snoke--”

“They have ladybugs,” Hux mutters, angling his head down, towards the ground. “Perhaps even the same ones that attacked our Queen--”

“Talk later,” Ren hushes, big hand settling around Hux's thin arm.

Snoke raises a brow at the appearance of one of his kin. “Lord Kylo Ren,” he says, voice echoing oddly. “How good it is to see you again. You look well.”

Hux's presence is entirely ignored. Snoke is a higher being and, as such, must be introduced to Hux first before he can speak freely.

“Your Majesty,” Ren says, bowing deeply, as is required. Hux matches him in the moment. “I'd like for you to meet my very first drone, Mr Armitage Hux.”

“Mr Hux,” Snoke repeats, looking at him curiously. His eyes are large, deeply set in his skull, reflecting no light whatsoever. His skin is grey and thin around his face, looking as thin as a piece of paper. “Your father, the Commandant, is he not a werewolf?”

Hux's polite smile falters. “Yes, he is.”

“How curious then, that you should have been turned into a drone,” Snoke remarks, carefully moving his hand, touching his chin gently. “Does it not feel like a betrayal of your kin?”

Hux's eyes slide to Ren's. How freely is he allowed to speak?

Ren does not make a move.

Not freely at all then.

Snoke, though ugly and massive, should not try to humiliate his guests. Hux seethes underneath the cruel concern.

Ren speaks for him. “To save Mr Hux's life, I fed him my blood, thus turning him into a drone. It is because of my actions that Mr Hux betrayed his family. I take full responsibility for it.”

King Snoke does not appear impressed by the outburst.

“My apprentice,” he says, looking as if he bit into something sour. “Your drone has need of an attitude adjustment.”

They both freeze.

Around them, the din grows quiet—eyes of all colors turning upon those in audience of the King.

“We shall remedy that,” Snoke decides, nodding ever so slowly. “Right now then. Drone, open your garment. Lord Ren will drink from you here to show you your place.”

“Master!” Ren cries out, eyes wide and so very expressive. He turns ashen, awfully scared at the prospect, blinking rapidly, breathing quickening.

“Do you not have the will, Lord Ren? Do you not have the desire to prove yourself above your drone?” Snoke says, humiliation clearly his goal. “Have you not completed your training with me? Have you not killed Be--”

Ren cuts him off, snarling and wild. He brushes his long, dark hair away from amber eyes, pupils narrowed to a mere pinprick.

Hux subsides, unbuttoning his vest, making quick work of it. Quickly too, he unbuttons the first few buttons to his cream colored shirt.

“Well then, Lord Ren, let's get on with it,” he says, voice crisp and so very cold.

Ren crowds close, eyes owlish. One of his overlarge hands comes back, cupping the back of Hux's throat. His other hand wraps about Hux's waist, pulling him close. Ren's hot breath tickles the soft skin of Hux's throat.

Carefully, Hux winds a hand into Ren's soft hair, pulling him ever close.

And his fangs sink in, blood spilling into Ren's mouth. The vampire swallows desperately, making soft noises, like a babe at its mother's breast.

All throughout, Hux does not break eye contact with Snoke, saying nothing with words but with his eyes alone.

“So much soul,” Snoke says, voice as gravel. “It's a wonder where the rumor came from... That humans with red hair are born with diminished souls or none at all. Still, what a shame that Lord Ren's first drone be a bastard who hadn't even left the wolves on his own will.”

The room falls silent at that.

Hux drops his gaze, pulse quickening. His cheeks heat—he knows that they must have turned their reddest.

But Snoke does not stop.

“What will your father say, once he returns and finds his only son—both bastard and troublemaker—no longer even somewhere Mr Brendol Hux can control,” says Snoke, shaking his head. He leans back on the throne. “What poor choice, you have made, Lord Ren, to save a useless man as this.”

Snoke leans forwards, his thin, grey, inhuman skin stretching around the tubes that keep him in his proper state of life. “Your father thought you worthless,” he whispers, voice slow, crawling like an insect across Hux's skin. “Why would Lord Ren think otherwise?”

“Why would Lord Ren love you when even your father, the man who sired you, couldn't?”

Ren pulls away, fangs making an obscene noise, sliding from the wounds on Hux's neck. They're healing—however slowly it might be, it is far faster than the healing a human would undertake.

“King Snoke--” Ren says, voice hoarse, trying to intervene.

“Silence.”

And Snoke's voice booms, echoing through the ballroom.

He waves a gnarled hand and a drone peels itself away from the wall, taking quick steps to Snoke's side. The drone stands, impassive and silent.

“Escort Mr Hux to the bedchambers,” Snoke says, waving his hand once more.

The drone's arm—stiff as a piece of iron—wraps around Hux's waist too tightly, forcing him away from Ren, shepherding him out of the room. Hux's head spins, much too light upon his shoulders. He throws a glance back, trying to meet Ren's gaze.

But his vampire is entirely focused on Snoke, head tilted upwards to look Snoke in his beady, midnight eyes.

And soon, Hux is all but swallowed by the crowd, eyes of red and yellow and violet watching each and every one of his steps.

*

He lays on the bed given to him, warm sheets trapped underneath him.

But he cannot sleep, eyes dry but so very open. He still wears the clothing from the party, still unbuttoned by his own hands. The wounds upon his throat had already closed and shortly his light headedness subsided.

Hours had passed.

Hours.

And Ren had not returned for him.

All Hux had to himself is the powered down clangermaid and a cold cup of tea. He reaches over the bed, hanging off of it, and picks up the cup from the floor. He drinks it, finishing it; the cold tea doesn't refresh and restore as it should.

He sighs, absolutely drained, and stands, feeling nothing. Soon, he knows, the swirling emotions will crash down upon him. He needs to step out, needs to breathe fresh air.

Slowly, he buttons up the shirt and then the vest, pulling on his best pair of walking shoes.

Hux leaves, leaving the door open, just a crack.

He walks, aimlessly traversing the halls. His hand traces against the brick wall. If he continues like this, he should find the exit.

He finds Maz first.

The curious vampire stands before him, dramatically shorter than him. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Mr Hux,” she says, nodding her head.

“Lady Maz,” he says, refusing to look away. He refuses to let his posture slacken. He refuses to lose more face, more dignity, tonight.

She gives him an odd, lingering sort of look. “You know,” she starts, “if you live long enough, you see the same eyes in different people.”

He pauses, blinking slowly.

Maz comes closer, staring at him curiously. “I see a man of honor, a man of order. A dangerous man,” she says, speaking slowly, considering her every word. “And someone with an abundance of soul. You will never be human again, never have another chance at following your father's footsteps. This may be a good thing. King Snoke will never be your Blood-father either—he is too afraid of the possibility of his being usurped. I do not have such fears.”

He blinks again, brows furrowing. “Why would you...?”

Maz smiles, calculatingly. “I am older than Snoke. But I do not care for the power he thinks he's amassed. It'd be better for us all if he'd lose some territory.” She smiles, showing her two pairs of fangs. Her feeders and her birthers.

Technically, Maz should be recognized as a Queen.

Hux nods again, storing the information. Information could always be used.

Maz points at a certain hall. “That way to the main entrance. You know the way to the dirigible if you'd like to wait there. Or, you could always walk about the gardens. It is lovely here.”

He nods. “Thank you,” he manages. Hux begins to walk, shoulders stiff and awkward.

Maz's voice chases after him. “I've seen those eyes Lord Ren has been born with too. Eyes of such internal conflict. Let's hope he makes the right choices in the near future.”

“Just when is the near future, Lady Maz?” Hux says, not spinning to meet her eyes.

Her laughter is warm and loud, bounding off of stone walls. “For me, it's hard to think of the last time something felt far away. You'll see if you live as long as I have!”

He allows himself a small smile, finding his heart to settle, just for the moment, lighter than it had been since he laid eyes on Snoke.

Hux pauses in the moment. “Lady Maz,” he says. “Picklemen are in King Snoke's throne room. They have technology I would be wary of.”

“My drones have already taken notice,” she says, jolly in a strange way. “Not everything is clear right now and I know better than to interfere too greatly. This is not the right time to speak about such things.”

Hux sighs. “Yes, of course.”

“Send a letter,” Maz suggests.

“Oh, but to who?”

Maz does not provide any more answers.

Hux continues on his lonely way, seeking out the entrance promised to him.

*

It's outside, when he sees the clouds above him, that his bottled emotions finally bubble and spill out.

It was foolish of him to come, Hux berates himself, all but physically restraining himself from clawing at his hair. It was foolish of him to ever believe in Ren and any sort of protection the fool might offer against Snoke.

The sky above him opens up, rain seeping down from the heavens, a sign of just how poorly he'd thought the plan through. In the distance, thunder crackles. It was stupid, so very _stupid,_ of him to have gone along with Ren. So very stupid to be his stubborn self in front of Snoke! And so very _stupid_ of him to think that perhaps Ren had changed, that perhaps Ren would _care_ about something as inconsequential as Hux's _feelings!_

He hugs himself closer, shuddering already. The rain is cold and steady, seeping into Hux's cream colored clothing and darkening them to some ugly, muddy brown.

Ren had picked out the clothing for him, had said that Hux looked nice in it, probably another one of his lies. Hux sniffles, rubs furiously at his eyes, unable to hold himself together, not know.

And he allows himself. After all, no one is around to watch him fall apart.

In the distance, Snoke's citadel loomed.

No one would come after him. Techie, the only other being who knows him and is able to go out into sunlight without any serious repercussions, had been properly returned to Madeline, unliberated as Ren had wanted to try. And the sun was out there somewhere, hiding behind a cloud, assuring that no vampire would disturb him.

Good.

So no one had to suffer, seeing him cry.

He sniffles once again, feeling the first few tears leak past his eyes, rolling down reddened cheeks.

His lightly colored clothing become heavy and oh so cold. He knows he needs to return inside the citadel, but cannot bear being in Ren's presence—not so soon after the terrible audience with Snoke!

But Hux has never gotten what he wants.

“Hux,” Ren's stupid, deep, crooning voice breathes, approaching. He's out of breath, huffing upon the steep hill behind him.

Hux doesn't turn around, only stares outwards, at the rolling hills and the bent trees. “Go away,” he hisses, ignoring how his own voice wobbles, so terribly weak. “You've done enough tonight, Lord Ren.”

“Hux please,” Ren begs. “Let me explain--”

Hux turns, hair windswept and so very damp. His eyes—no doubt, those little pale _traitors_ —have reddened along the edges, giving him an awful heartsick expression, the expression belonging to a much weaker boy than he. “Explain what?” he says, holding back a sob. He is a Hux and Huxes _do not cry; it Is simply not allowed._ “Haven't you done enough?” His head spins, much too light and splitting at the seams.

“Please,” Ren says, practically begging, and Hux finally sees him.

His dark hair is plastered against his grey skin, grey skin reddened with welts that came from exposure to the sun. His amber eyes are wide and scared, so very human In the moment. Ren trembles, shakes just barely visible, tremors of his body shaking Hux's core.

“Please,” he repeats, stepping closer. Ren shrugs off his heavy jacket and places it upon Hux's shoulders, weighing him down, acting as an anchor. Ren is allowed to grant this small act of pity. Hux doesn't move. “Please let me explain, and once I do, you may judge me however you wish.”

“Fine,” Hux says, throat sore. He pulls Ren's jacket closer to himself, huddling within it, shrinking away at the sound of far off thunder.

Ren looks at him, far too gently. He licks his lips, wetting them. “I am so very sorry, King Snoke subjected you to that,” he says, quietly, guiltily. “I had no clue he would do that to you... to attack you like that, using his power and intelligencers. It isn't fair, it isn't fair to humiliate you in front of vampiric society and... it isn't fair to lie about _my_ emotions.”

“Your... emotions?”

Ren blinks, wonderstruck, water rolling across reddened cheeks. “I... thought you had already realized... I've known you for five years and always went out of my way to meet with you, especially when we had both been human.”

“Snoke... said a lie?” Hux finds himself breathless, legs as heavy as lead.

“You thought he was telling the truth about me?” Ren asks, eyes so very heavy on Hux's face. He steps ever closer. “I thought... you didn't want me. His Majesty Snoke told me to keep my distance. Vampires and werewolves, you see, their romances never quite work out. There's a history of it.”

Hux swallows a laugh. It sounds like a sob. “I thought Snoke was picking fun at my stupid attraction to you.”

Ren smiles, wide and toothy, all his fangs on display. “You think me attractive?” he says, so hopeful, young, and sweet in the moment. “Even with the ears?” he says, finding faults in himself. “And the--?” he gestures at his face, referring to the beauty marks that spot his face.

Hux tilts his head, unable to still his tongue. “You've grown into them,” is all he can say on the matter. “All of them. You are handsome, Lord Ren. Rest assured of that.”

“Oh,” Ren swallows, cheeks hot. “I've... always thought you handsome. Ever since we were introduced. But... you were striving to become a werewolf, and I tried my hand at becoming a vampire. It wouldn't work out. But I was selfi--.”

Hux smiles mirthlessly, giving into his personal failure, thinking of Maz's words. “And you know how well my plan worked out. Maybe... it was all for the best?”

Ren frowns at him, eyes so very sad. “I... would very much like to kiss you. May I?”

Hux closes his eyes. “You may,” he says, just as quietly. His lips are chapped and thin and he waits.

The vampire takes Hux's gloved hand and brings it up, to his mouth. He places a gentle kiss upon Hux's knuckles, warmth seeping through for the moment. His amber eyes stare longingly at the pink of Hux's lips but do nothing to close the gap between them.

It would not be proper to kiss so brazenly so early on in a courtship, if that is what it's meant to be.

“Please allow me to escort you to your room, Mr Hux,” says Ren, looking quite troubled. He pauses, pressing his lips together. He looks quite guilty as well.

“What is it?” Hux snips, sniffling all the while, clothing clinging to his chilled skin uncomfortably.

“I would like to offer you my elbow,” Ren admits. “But I fear that is against all the rules of etiquette.”

“Unfortunately for you, you will find that is not the first thing about us that goes against etiquette,” Hux says, sighing softly. “Lord Ren, I would very much appreciate the elbow if it is still up for the taking.”

And offer it, Ren does, so very quickly, he nearly knocks it into Hux's soft belly.

Hux wraps his hand around the crook of Ren's elbow. Overhead, the rain has only worsened, lighting striking in the distance. “I'd like to take you up on your offer to escort me to my rooms just about now, Lord Ren.”

And so they walk together, very much reminiscent of a couple; Hux feeling very much like a girl so early in her seasons and yet he very much knows: what they are doing cannot be considered proper courtship at all.

Hux, in a moment of pure silliness, leans his head against Ren's damp shoulder. “When will we begin our float back?”

Ren hums. “One more day,” he promises.

Hux sighs, unable to wait for it to be over.

 


	7. The Graveyard--A Second Crisis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After "Apparently a fresh grave" a dead body is found. I don't think the particular descriptions are very graphic but it might be a problem for some people. The descriptions only last in the first section.

It's on the carriage to the address that Bazine Netal had been seen last that Hux finally choses to launch his barrage of questions. “So, Lord Ren, we never discussed. Was the dirigible to your liking?” Hux sits facing the direction the carriage drives. Ren sits across him, knees nowhere near touching, proper, for two supposedly engaged in courtship. Ren hadn't brought it up after the incident in the rain.

What is not proper, however, is how the two share a closed of wagon with no chaperone to speak of.

“Yes, Mr Hux,” Ren says, narrowing his eyes, giving the indulgence of a flirtatious smile. “It was rather a comfortable and fascinating trip, was it not?”

Hux hums politely in agreement.

“I really do think I should seek out a manufacturer,” Ren murmurs. “But I wouldn't want such a large dirigible. Simply nowhere to park it in our crowded London.”

“Miss Rey is an inventor of sorts,” Hux suggests, eyes rather focused on the plushness of Ren's lips, now that he is allowed, somewhat, to indulge. He has not indulged, not yet. “You could always ask her to draw up designs for a more compact dirigible.”

Ren nods, appearing to consider Hux's suggestion. “I may as well. I'll bring it up once we see her again.”

Hux does not spring to tea time just yet; he has other questions littering his mind, questions that could not be expressed safely at Snoke's citadel or even Maz's great airship.

Questions that would be perfectly safe expressed when in Lord Ren's carriage, alone, and in the dead of night.

Hux presses his lips together, glancing at the floor of the carriage. “And the Picklemen? Did you see them at the party after I left?”

“I did,” Ren says lowly, dense lashes lowering to obscure his eyes.

He frowns. “Did you happen to manage to speak with them?” Hux eyes flit about. Tragically, he had not been able to obtain evidence of the Picklemen's shaky business, not a single one of those ladybugs to confirm what Hux suspected. They had to have known who build the ladybug mechanicals or—even worse—had created the mechanicals themselves. But for what remains a mystery.

_Just what would they gain from the death of the Queen?_

Ren frowns as well, bearing the marks of both shamefulness and bashfulness. “I did see them, but I saw nothing of their ladybugs.”

“No attacks? Huh,” Hux huffs, blinking slowly. If the Picklemen did not use their anti-supernatural weapon, then just what had they brought them for? Just what did they require from Snoke when they already earned his sponsorship?

“Mr Hux,” Ren says, eyes wet and dewy and so very soft looking. “Are you sure you saw ladybug mechanicals, yes, not some other sort?”

Hux sighs, nods, changes the subject since Ren clearly will not have it. “Our Captain Phasma is set to return to us on the Friday, yes? Will we have tea at the London Pack's home then?” asks Hux.

He nods gruffly. “That mousy little Mitaka is the one who drew up the plans.”

“Who would you rather? Mr Finn? I should think he has little time for suggesting tea parties between his work and his personal life. Haven't you seen the Daily Herald yet?” Hux asks, tapping a finger to the bottom of his chin. Gossip had always been a forte—perhaps he'd should have gone for a vampire from the start. “It seems that he and Mr Poe have finally begun relations.”

“I had not seen that yet,” Ren says, leaning forwards solicitously. “But how well timed. They've only been flirting for what, six years?”

“Six years is plenty,” Hux says, finding himself smiling. “They had started off with friendship and common kindness.”

Ren snorts, moving back against the cushion. “And what had we started with? Common hatred?”

“Not common hatred,” Hux corrects. “Anger and vitriol towards one another... Repressed sexual desires, perhaps?” He sighs, quietly. “And what do we have now?”

“Something... bordering on friendship?” Ren offers, smiling, showing a flash of his pointed fangs, something else lost in the dark of his eyes. Then he sobers, looking dreadfully serious, and leans forwards, capturing one of Hux's gloved hands in between two of his own. “I will continue our courtship, I swear, just once we are all settled, just once this case is solved.”

His hands are so very warm and Hux allows himself the touch.

The wagon goes over a bump, separating their hold.

Ren stares at him longingly, every year of pining spent so clearly written across his face. It's charming really. Better to be abrupt about one's feelings than to hope from afar that the object of one's desire catch feelings spontaneously as well.

He leans back, reaching a hand outwards to pull back the curtains. “Ah, yes. A cemetery,” Hux says, so very dry. “And Formerly Alice told us that Miss Bazine went here for tea? Hmm...”

“Not just any cemetery either...” Ren mutters.

Commonly referred to as, simply, the Old Cemetery by ordinary folk, it possesses a high gate, left almost always open. The cemetery isn't often used. Soul Stealer Cemetery, place of burial for the preternatural and metanatural of old, possesses a certain aura—an aura that turns visiting supernatural mortal while within its range, once making it popular for that very fact.

Hux turns his head away from the gate and stares at Ren. The horses had come to a gradual stop. Ren's eyes—no longer amber, but a dark, earthy brown—widen. His skin becomes less grey, becomes more... mortal. Everything about him seems to soften, becoming much less ethereal.

Ren, for as long as they are so very close to the graveyard, is very much mortal.

“Huh,” Hux breathes again.

“We could have come during the day,” Ren mutters, rolling his eyes, annoyed at the graveyard itself. He opens the carriage door and hops out, holding it for Hux as well.

Together they walk to the gate. Hux taps the dirt ground with the tip of his parasol—may that thing never leave his side! It would not be of incredible use if they were to be attacked. The frilly, dark, heavy parasol only contained anti-supernatural weapons, though it is not to say that the silver stake came without its uses.

Hux eyes cannot seem to stray far from Ren's face—the curious thing had become more alluring now that he is human.

Ren pushes the gate open and marches in, squaring up his shoulders, as if ready to participate in a brawl. Hux smiles at the very image.

“Formerly Alice didn't know where exactly Miss Bazine would go in this cemetery, did she?” Hux says with a shudder. While not exactly large, the cemetery was still more broad than he would have liked. Days have passed, he knows, but surely some evidence would still remain.

Ren grunts, shaking his head. “She called it unusual... she must have known.”

The graves below them are well spaced out. But still, with so many soulless beings in one place, Bazine must have endured incredible discomfort to come here—the discomfort that came when a soulless was in another's presence, living or dead.

 _But for what?_ Hux wants to ask.

Surely nothing would be worth it, the early morning jaunt here to have tea with heavens know who.

Ren wanders off, quicker than Hux could even think, heading to the older set of graves.

Hux scoffs. “Lord Ren!” he calls, cupping cold hands around his mouth. “What do you think you will find over there?”

“Apparently a fresh grave,” Ren calls, tossing his head back. He kneels, mud clinging to fresh trousers.

Hux throws up his hands. Those had been a good pair! One of Ren's few fashionable ones.

Ren doesn't even pull of his gloves. Quickly—and, grossly—he begins to shovel dirt away form the shallow, unmarked grave.

Hux approaches, swallowing though he found his throat parched. He finds his feet going faster, faster still, heart thumping dangerously in his chest.

_Surely not!_

He cups a gloved hand to his mouth, holding back a wave of both horror and revulsion at the smell, at the sight. Even while serving, he'd never-- “Please tell me that is not--”

Ren frowns. “I am afraid I am unable to tell you anything but.”

There, before them both, the battered and broken body of Bazine Netal lies. She wears her best set of clothing—once a deep and sultry shade of red, now horribly and irreversibly stained by the mud that had surrounded her. She had already begun to decay. Her scarf has been pulled loose, burnt skin all too visible, tainted with the ground. Her high cut gown, once a violet shade, cannot hide the old blood that had leaked from a gunshot—too big to have been from a muffpistol—right over her heart. Her lips, bloodless now, hold back tea leaves, of all things.

Her eyes, milky and unseeing, stare forth at them, fear still present in them.

Ren brings her back down, as gently as he can manage and pulls off his ruined gloves, discarding them. He stands, coming to Hux's side and presses himself close, a warm assurance in these times.

“I...I...” Hux shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from the sight. “Alright,” he says, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “We have to return to the Bureau of Unnatural Registry.”

Ren blinks slowly, nods. Even slower, he wraps his muscular arm around Hux's waist, guiding the thin man away from the corpse and towards the entrance.

Inside his mind, he does calculations, trying to remember boys at Bunson's Academy who had expressed interest in joining the vastly anti-supernatural Picklemen. They had _no_ reason, _no reason_ whatsoever to shoot a preternatural being—someone who could _null_ supernatural abilities. Picklemen favored them.

Could the Picklemen not have been behind the plot?

Could there be another, someone, someone _s_ Hux had not considered?

“It doesn't make sense,” Hux breathes, weak then.

Ren hushes him, hurrying him along.

*

The Bureau is still open, even so late at night—or rather, so early in the morning.

Inspector Dickingson taps her nails against her desk, grey face nodding as Ren speaks. Her lips remain still, in a fine line.

“You've found Miss Bazine? Dead. Huh,” she breathes, breath making her light hairs dance. “If only you hadn't left the country for God knows what. Maybe she would have been found alive.”

“She'd been dead for weeks, Inspector,” Ren hisses, fangs catching on air, making a slight whistle.

Hux sours, but fights to remain semi-pleasant. What Hux didn't know would not hurt him: he is unable to hide his disdain in the moment. “Otherwise, Inspector Dickingson, we could not simply ignore an invitation from a Hive King. It simply isn't done, you know that. It would be a breach in protocol.”

Dickingson presses a finger to the bridge of her nose and sighs, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ' _vampires_.' “We will send Inspectors to collect the body and search for clues. You haven't found anything, have you?”

The strange appearance of the Picklemen and their amusing little ladybugs jumps to the forefront of Hux's mind.

“Nothing concrete,” Ren speaks up, low voice rumbling in his throat. “She had been shot with something significantly larger than a muffpistol. But then again, I am no expert on firearms.”

Dickingson raises a thin, arched brow. “That does not narrow it very much at all.”

Hux brings both of his hands behind his back, holding his right wrist with his left hand. “That is all,” he says, completely composed. “Thank you for your time.”

Dickingson nods. “We will send you a transmission if anything changes,” she says, dipping her head respectfully. “It was been a pleasure. You know the process. Five to ten business days to check and see if more information will be available to you.”

“Yes...” Ren echoes, eyes heavy. “A pleasure.”

He is still very much an awful liar.

*

The sun is peaking over, through the low hanging clouds when Ren's carriage pulls up outside of the London Pack's house. Outside, on the lawns, two wolves play with one another, tackling, biting, and yipping.

Ren closes the curtains, retreating into the darkest corner of the carriage. He wraps his coat closer about himself, pale, painted hands exposed to the air. “Go on,” Ren encourages, amber eyes trailing to the door. “I can't be with you, but I will wait.”

Hux nods, opening up the carriage door on his own, sure to close it before the sun's rays got to Ren.

The wolves—one large and white furred, the other smaller and brown—pause in their play. They come towards Hux, growling, snarling.

“Hello, Mr Thanisson, Ms Unamo,” he says, nodding his head.

The werewolves continue yipping, coming closer, snapping at Hux's legs.

He sighs, falling to his knees, holding his hands above his head. “I come peacefully, to see a certain Mr Mitaka.” Hux continues, holding the proper pose of submission for a human, regretting having left the parasol within the carriage.

The wolves look to one another and walk off, all without acknowledging Hux, as subordinate or as another person.

He sighs, briefly, and gets up, brushing dirt from the knees of his pants.

It should not hurt so much—the reminder, that the London Pack no longer considers him one of their own. Hux is over the Pack. He is over it and all the expectations that came with it.

He continues onto the path, following it up to the door.

There, he knocks and waits, hoping for a friendly face.

And—for once—Hux finds himself lucky, Mitaka pulling the door open. The mousy little Mitaka is a mess. Cat fur clings to his clothing, most prominently to his dark colored pants.

But his face brightens with joy, throwing himself forward without a thought.

“Mr Hux!” Mitaka cheers, wrapping his arms about Hux's shoulders. He pulls back after a quick moment, trying to school his face to calmness. He fails, easily. “Oh, my heavens. The Pack is not the same without you!”

Hux cannot help the warm smile. “May I come in?” he asks.

Mitaka steps aside, nearly tripping over his feet in the process. “Yes, yes, but of course! Oh! Please do not mind the state of the sitting room. I'm afraid that we cannot keep it so tidy without you.”

“How were your days spent with Millicent?” Hux prompts.

“Oh, just wonderful,” Mitaka says. “The little queen does not care at all for the werewolves around her. She seems to be quite chatty as well.”

Hux nods. “Good.”

Millicent—in all her regal glory—sits upon a pillow on the finest couch in the sitting room. She basks in a small ray of sunlight, fur practically fire. At the noise, her eyes open to reveal such tiny emerald treasures and she mewls loudly.

He cannot resist her cry and rushes to her, sitting gingerly on the couch. Hux pulls off his glove to scratch between Millicent's ears.

“Everything went well, I take it?” Hux asks, fighting a smile as Millicent purrs beneath his indulgent fingers.

“Absolutely,” Mitaka assures. Then his eyes flicker, worry filtering in. “Oh, there is _something_ I must confess to you.”

Hux quirks a brow.

“Would you like tea?” Mitaka asks, fiddling with his fingers.

“No, I'm fine,” he says, fingers going slowly through soft fur. Ren is waiting for him inside of the carriage. It'd be best to go about the task efficiently. “What's happened that's gotten you so worried, Mr Mitaka?”

“W-well,” Mitaka says, shoulders curving up. He seats himself on a couch adjacent to Hux himself. “A young man came to us a few days ago, asking for cavalier status. But our Alpha isn't here, so we could not accept or decline.”

“Yes... and?”

“And he is still within this house, causing a ruckus and stirring trouble and, oh, Mr Hux, I am completely unaware of what must be done,” Mitaka says, all in a rush. Sweat beads across his brow. He looks pale and even unhealthy.

“What is his name?” Hux asks. “Is he from the military.”  
“Mr Matthew Shepherd,” Mitaka says. “And, worse, he is a Bunson's boy.”

“It might do well to remind you that I myself am also a Bunson's boy and I will not take that statement lightly,” Hux says, smiling slyly.

Mitaka winces, frightened so terribly. “While I will admit he has a way with technology, his temper is simply something fierce! Did you know, he choked me?” Mitaka whispers this behind a hand, leaning close, as if afraid that Matthew would come back and complete the job.

“He would not be the first one to choke you, Mr Mitaka,” Hux adds dryly.

“Yes, but Lord Ren is above me and cannot be dealt with! I've no clue who Mr Matthew thinks himself to be!” This explosion of emotion is a first for the normally quiet man.

Mitaka realizes this too and makes himself small. “I must apologize,” Mitaka whispers, sweat dripping down his young face. “But I am completely unsure of what to do. Mr Finn is surprisingly kind to Mr Matthew, giving him both instructions and second chances. But Mr Matthew is incomprehensible and unforgivable!”

Hux raises a brow.

Mitaka holds the back of his wrist to his forehead, surprisingly dramatic. “He claims to love poor little Miss Millie but only seems able to torture the cat!”  
“What's he done?” Hux asks, growing protective of the soft, fuzzy head underneath his hand.

Mitaka presses a handkerchief underneath his eyes. “He's... done horrible things... He's given Millicent a bath!”

Perhaps that is why Millicent's fur feels so very soft and silky. Hux doesn't speak his thoughts.

“Ah,” he breathes. “And you want me to do what with him?”

“Please,” Mitaka says, shrill and high and panicked. “Would you please talk with Mr Matthew and explain why things are the way things are?”

“Remember Mr Mitaka, I am no longer part of the London Pack,” Hux warns, lowering his green eyes to little half moons.

“Sorry, sorry,” Mitaka says, whispering more apologizes. His eyes grow large and fearful. “I-I had only thought--”

Hux shakes his head. “I tease,” he clarifies. “Where is the young Mr Matthew. I will have a word with him for you.” He puts on his best stern expression—the one Finn compares to a disgruntled man witnessing people not using coasters.

“I will take you to him!” Mitaka says, quite loudly and excitedly, nodding quickly.

He takes them out the back entrance, to the flower garden.

And there, a man stands, at the very center of it all.

His hair is a mass of curls, all a bright shade of blond. He wears spectacles, ones that are not particularly fashionable. His clothes are a patchwork of styles—absolutely abhorrent, to Hux's drone self.

“Oh. Hey. I'm Matt,” he says, noticing a new face. The cavalier-to-be stretches out a calloused, ungloved hand.

Hux lets out a long exhale. He takes the hand in one of his own—thankfully, properly gloved—hands and shakes. Matthew's grip is a tad too strong. “Hello Mr Matthew Shepherd. I am Mr Armitage Hux. A pleasure.”

Matthew nods along. He has a very distinct face—sallow, covered with moles, a crooked nose. He bears an uncanny resemblance to Ren himself.

“You aren't American, are you?” Hux asks, wishing to sate his curiosity, just this once.

Both Matthew and Mitaka look at him oddly for the outburst.

“No,” Matthew starts. “I'm, um, I'm from Wales.”

“Wales,” Hux repeats. He lets out a soft puff. “Alright.” Then he sets back upon his task. “Then why do you wish to join the London Pack?”

“Are you part of it, Mr Hux?”

He blinks once, twice. “How forward,” Hux cannot help but says. “I have recently left the pack to become a vampire drone. But I still have my affiliation. I do hope you do not find my asking to be rude.”

Matthew looks at him curiously. “I was not accepted as a cavalier in my homeland of Wales or the pack of Ireland. So, I came here. I heard the London Pack is running small.”

“That, it is,” Hux acquiesces. “But the Alpha is not here right now. You can always return on Friday. She'll be back then. No sense living with a pack if you aren't sure about your position in it...”

Matthew shrugs, adjusting the overlarge spectacles that slip down his large nose. “Yeah, but there's no harm in me staying here until then,” he protests, spectacularly stubborn, almost as if Hux is speaking with a human, werewolf-inclined Ren.

He looks Mitaka, who only watches in awe; who could be in their right mind to protest against the chilly Armitage Hux?

Hux sighs, rolling his eyes. “Very well,” he acquiesces. “Mr Mitaka is one of the cavaliers, so surely you should listen to him. Good day, Mr Shepherd.”

Who could be in their right mind to protest against the chilly Armitage Hux and _win_?

“Good day, Mr Hux,” Matthew says, unknowing or uncaring of the achievement he'd earned for himself.

“Mr Mitaka,” Hux says, snapping the man to attention. “I will be taking my leave now. I must admit I am a bit cross at Lord Ren, but it is no reason for him to suffer so. You understand, yes?”

“R-right,” Mitaka says, shrinking in on himself, face once again pallid, sweat beading upon his brow. Today, Mitaka witnesses something unusual: Hux _giving up._ “Please follow me, Mr Hux. I will bring you back to the front entrance.”

Millicent is quick to follow.

*

“Ren,” Hux admits, leaning closer, conspiratorially close, eyes shifting to the side. Logically, he admits, no one else should overhear the conversation—especially not inside of Ren's own carriage. “I can collect and file proper BUR documents provided. I'd... like for you to request an investigation on the Picklemen. There's... suspicious circumstances surrounding them, you agree, yes?”

If they aren't the ones who killed Bazine and tried to kill the Queen, it would be fine. But, they had technology used in one of the schemes. Information could be had.

And information ruled in the age of intelligencers.

Ren's face sours. “It isn't that easy, Hux.”

“Certainly not,” he snips. “A lot of paperwork, a good deal of waiting, and a sincere hope that the Bureau manages to find evidence so that we do not face anti-supernatural backlash.”

“No Hux,” Ren says, wide lips thinning. His brows furrow. He hunches in on himself, making himself smaller. He's nervous, Hux realizes with a start. “I cannot oppose the Picklemen, not when my King sponsors them.”

Hux had thought Ren would say the same.

His King.

Ren's king.

Did they not serve the same ruler?

“Did you not want to court me, Lord Ren?” he challenges, tilting his chin upwards, exposing a slip of his pale throat. “Would you not do as I ask—not simply for me, but also for this country's Queen?”

“You're... not going to let this go, are you?” Ren asks, so very sadly.

Hux shakes his head. “I can go around you and your authority and fill the request for investigation myself, but it will reflect poorly upon you.”

Ren sighs, brings a hand up to pull at his long, curled hair. He sighs again, louder and much more dramatic. “Hux,” he says, a hint of desperation in his voice. “You can't do this.”

He leans away, tilts his head away, looking to the covered window. The hooves of the mechanical horses are much too loud. Hux snorts, rolling his eyes. “How disappointing,” he says, so very quiet. “You underestimate me, Lord Ren. I am no longer a weak-willed boy.”

Ren looks at him, heartsick and so very young. “Hux,” he tries again. “Ask for something else, anything else. You know I cannot betray my blood-father in that way!” His voice booms, seeming to echo throughout the wagon.

Hux continues to stare at the curtain, fingers itching to pull it away and to let in light, to blind the vampire temporarily, to express his anger.

Millicent mewls, crawling on top of Hux's lap, kneading at his legs, hungry for affection. Hux strokes between her eyes, gazing as her long hairs come off and cling to his clothing. Those individual stands of furs have already littered the inside of Ren's wagon.

 _Good,_ Hux thinks, stroking down from Millicent's head to her upper back. _Ren deserves a punishment._

 


	8. Werewolves—The Return of Captain Phasma

Ren is perhaps not the most skilled man when it comes to the courtship process.

Hux awakens to find a steaming cup of tea at his bedside, releasing an awfully fruity scent into the room—some fruit that Hux could not quite put a finger on. He sits up, reaching out into cool air to grasp at the cup, sipping thoughtfully at it.

It is not a particularly _bad_ taste, but it still is rather _sweet,_ sweetened even more with what is no doubt pure honey _._

Hux sighs. Only Ren would love tea so terribly, tooth-achingly sweet.

The cup of tea, situated next to a small offering of sweet biscuits, does not make for an impressive first courting gift or even an impressive apology. It especially does not make for an impressive breakfast either—unless Ren was going for impressively unhealthy.

Hux snorts to himself, placing the delicate little cup back onto the table. He nibbles on a biscuit, carefully not to scatter crumbs about his bedsheets. It still feels a little naughty, eating while still in bed.

The days had past with both men moping about the house, avoiding one another and confiding in the cat.

But now Friday is upon them—the day Phasma returns and the day they were to have tea within the London pack's home—and they can no longer afford to look the other way.

Hux slips out of bed, feet touching cold floor. He holds back a shiver, stumbling to his closet. Quickly does he dress, just to look barely decent; after all, it is _Ren_ he is seeking out, not some lady of quality or anyone of import.

Then does he leave the room, holding the last of the biscuits, almost as an offering.

Ren is already awake, lingering about in the front sitting room. His hair falls in waves against his pallid cheeks. He's dressed in a tan suit, all various warm shades of brown, not at all complimenting his ghastly complexion but only making it seem more harsh. Millicent sits in his lap, curled about, purring loudly and steadily.

“Good morning,” Hux calls, seating himself across from Ren. He stretches his arm out, handing over the biscuit.

Ren accepts it, taking it and biting into it without a care. Crumbs spill from his mouth onto his shirt, raining upon poor Millicent, who can only meow her displeasure. “Dry, aren't they?” Ren complains.

Hux hums.

They fall into silence, Millicent's little chirps and murps being the only noises between them.

“Tonight,” Ren says, fingers twitching, as if he'd like to reach out and touch Hux, to cup his soft cheek and hold him close. It's a ridiculous thought. It doesn't happen. “We'll leave at sundown. We cannot cancel on Captain Phasma.”

“Yes... I'll find my best visiting outfit,” Hux assures.

Ren looks at him, something hesitant and scared about his expression. He's never been good at hiding his emotions. “Hux, please,” he says, voice hitching. Ren reaches out, placing a warm hand across Hux's kneecap. “Don't bring up the Picklemen. Don't bring up the ladybug mechanicals.”

He blinks slowly, something lodging at the back of his throat. Cold surrounds his heart. Hux swats Ren's hand away from his knee, sees how Ren's face falls.

“I assure you, I will not bring up the Picklemen and their quite possibly dastardly scheme to Phasma,” Hux says, turning his body away. He stands, quickly, and nods. “I will see you then,” he says, walking quickly back to his room.

Ren watches, amber eyes so very soft and so very sad, mouth slightly opened, as if poised to say something. But he doesn't. And that is all that should matter.

*

They do not speak in the carriage to the London werewolf pack's home. They sit across from one another, not looking at one another, avoiding even the slightest bit of touch. The Picklemen sponsored by Snoke and their ladybug mechanicals have driven a wedge between drone and vampire—the worst sort of emotional disconnect. Hux only grips the parasol tighter, fighting a scowl from making its way across his face.

Tonight is important, he tells himself. He can save his scowling for later.

The carriage stops, rather suddenly, and Ren opens the doors, not manually, but with a twist of his fingers, likely using his vampiric powers. He has never made mention of them to Hux and he likely never will. Ren doesn't say anything before leaping from the wagon first, not even waiting for Hux to follow him as Ren begins up the path to the front door.

Hux huffs, expecting it, and trails Ren in his haste. Of course, Ren would never consider talking about matters of great importance.

Before either gentleman can knock, the door swings open. Matthew stands before them, wearing an ill-fitting suit and a crooked cravat. The dark coloring of the materials nearly washed out his pasty skin. Who exactly had chosen his clothing? Hux had half a mind to ask. “Hey,” he says, so very casual, not at all an appropriate greeting for a vampire lord and his drone, especially when coming from a lower ranked cavalier. “Come in.”

Ren, if angered by this display of bad manners, does not let it show and follows the _presumed_ cavalier into the house, following him to the sitting room.

Phasma sits among her men, dressed, once again, in trousers and a vest. Her shirt sleeves have been rolled up, exposing her muscular and scarred arms. She grins toothily at the last too arrivals. “Lord Ren, Mr Hux,” she calls. “How good to see you both!”

Around the room, a couple of her werewolves linger, hunching forwards ungentleman-like on one of the large couches in the room, not hiding their agitated expressions. Chief among them is a certain Brendol Hux.

Brendol Hux, though older, has not aged greatly since he underwent the Bite. His hair, like Hux's own, shone a coppery red, Brendol's having a certain other worldly feeling out it. His eyes, pale green, linger on the figure of Hux, who stands by Ren's side. It is not a very friendly look, but when had Hux expected friendliness from his father?

“Thank you for the invitation, Captain Phasma,” Ren says, tilting his head in acknowledgement. He seats himself in a lone untaken chair. Hux is left a place on the couch beside Finn, who smiles, strained, too terribly aware of the abrasive nature of the gathering. “It is a pleasure to visit once again. How was your trip to the Highlands?”

“As expected,” Phasma says, stirring her spoon inside of her tea cup, lips curving wryly to form the ghost of a smile. “Nothing of suspect to be found. Luckily, the pack did not take offense to our trespassing,” She lets out a sigh, drinking her tea and taking comfort in it. “But orders from Her Majesty are to be followed regardless of what they may be, am I not right?”

Hux's eyes flicker to Ren, who makes himself small, reaching out for tea. He goes through the motions, pouring in a splash of tea and drowning it with milk and sugar, weakening it and destroying the flavor.

Matthew nods to himself, seemingly impressed by Ren's taste in tea and does the same, slurping it rather loudly. Otherwise, he does not contribute greatly to the conversation.

Brendol Hux does not take his glower away from his son. His cravat is messily tied, not even straight. He looks as uncivil as a Hux can get.

“How goes your investigation, Lord Ren, Mr Hux?” asks Phasma, clasping her hands together, eyes glinting curiously, hungry for any information. “I am incredibly curious to hear any details that may be shared.” If anything, Phasma had been the one who wanted to search for Bazine and any possible suspects, following clues the impostor left behind and the clues that Phasma would surely intimidate out from those at the Bureau of Unnatural Registry.

Ren does not answer, continuing to sip at his tea, averting his eyes from the wolfish woman. It appears that Ren does not even wish to answer. A rude offense in another's house.

And as always, it is up to Hux to clean after Ren's messes.

“I suspect that what we've discovered wouldn't quite make for polite conversation,” Hux admits, lowering his eyes. He takes another sip of the tea, charmingly strong and crisp. He raises a brow, thinking, _perhaps..._

Finn looks disappointed at that, lowering his eyes, biting into a biscuit.

“Although, it would have been nice to know about my brother,” Hux says, sipping politely at tea.

Mitaka whimpers, snatching up a biscuit and stuffing himself with it, nearly choking. He looks terribly frightened, especially sitting next to a glowering Brendol. Mitaka, ever pale and pallid, looks very nearly sick with discomfort. Surely soon, he'd faint into Phasma's arm and Phasma would challenge Brendol—a romantic and absurd thought; it almost makes Hux smile.

The rest of the room falls silent at that, stunned by Hux's revelation and defiance.

“Brother, Mr Hux?” Phasma asks. “Oh, I really am not surprised. The commandant here had been a _dog_ in his youth.”

Hux clicks his tongue, growing even more bold. “Oh, no, Lady Phasma, I'm afraid my brother is younger than me. More interestingly, he too appears to belong to a vampire.” Hux raises his eyes, defiantly meeting Brendol's own.

“How sad of you, father, to be unable to inspire loyalty in either of your two bastards.”

Brendol's eyes glimmer unmistakably with rage and hatred, twining to one massive negative entity.

And then he does the unthinkable.

He does not respond to Hux, leaving his taunts to die in the air, thickening the tension.

“Lord Ren,” Brendol Hux begins, turning away from his disgraced son. “I would have liked an opportunity to speak with you earlier, much earlier than this.” He has not aged, not since he underwent the Bite and survived, but he had still been middle-aged when the process occurred. His ginger hair is short and precise, a very military look. His eyes, a clever green, look positively poisonous today.

Ren perks up at that. “Oh? Really, Mr Hux--”

“Commandant. Commandant Hux,” Brendol corrects, bringing his shoulders back, making himself look more broad, puffing himself up, pretending as if he is the Alpha in this sort of situation.

Truthfully, he is just barely qualified to be Beta—though militarily strong, he is simply unable to exert a comforting presence that Betas tend to, always leading to scandals for the bawdy and small pack!

The vampire tilts his head, a brow raising, but in what sort of matter, Hux could not tell. Though Brendol Hux may be Beta of the London Pack, he is not remarkably high up within society in general and should know not to speak so frankly to a lord like that. Ren appears to let it go, instead interested deeply in what Brendol wanted to say so very badly.

“Well, what is it?” Ren manages, trying to dampen his own curiosity, but failing. He absolutely buzzes with excitement at the prospect of new information.

“You've done me a great injustice,” Brendol says, green eyes so very sharp and cutting. “By turning my _son_ into one of your _creatures_ _ **,**_ you've caused quite the stir and damaged my reputation--”

Ren opens his mouth, anger filing his amber eyes. “I saved your son's life,” he hisses. “You should _thank me_.”

“What is there to thank?” Brendol asks, standing up, letting his tea cup fall and crash against the tea table, chipping it and spilling tea. Still on the couch, Mitaka seems to sink into it, whimpering frighteningly, eyes watering. “To think, the _bastard_ escaped his punishment not once, but _twice_? Lord Ren, I implore you to give up custody of this drone,” he spits, furious, “and allow me the right to end his disgrace.”

Ren does not drop his tea cup—rather, it begins floating and tottering from side to side in the air. “No,” Ren spits. “You've _no right_ to ask for another's life!” He too stands, a snarl twisting his features.

The Beta smiles, toothily and vicious. “What a curious thing for a _vampire_ of all creatures to say! You live because you take the lives of others.”

“No,” Ren spits back. He smiles too, smaller than the furious grin that encompasses Brendol's face. “I don't feed on the unwilling, nor do I take from those unwilling. Lately, I've been feeding from your son.” He sits back down onto the chair, perhaps with a little more force than he should.

Hux stands at that, unbeckoned, and crosses the small space to Ren.

Normally, Ren feeds from Hux's wrist—easier and less messy—but they're putting on a show agitating and aggravating the older man. Poor Ren, the _child_ of a man could be spurred to an argument so very easily, especially when it came to Hux as of late.

Hux sits across Ren's left thigh, having quite the view of the room and their emotional termoil.

Clumsily, Ren bumbles with Hux's cravat, pulling it off entirely and working through the buttons, just till Hux's pale throat and collarbones are visible. He dips close, licking across Hux's skin, nibbling at first before sinking his fangs in, creating a shallow wound.

Ren laps at the warm blood, lips and tongue working in tandem, creating an absurdly obscene noise. Hux can't help the breathless whimper that escapes past his own lips at how gently Ren drinks, how terribly he teases him.

It's all a show—a very effective one at that, one that causes Mitaka to redden a terrible amount, one that causes Finn to look away, one that certainly outrages a certain Brendol Hux.

“Despicable,” Brendol hisses, taking two quick steps towards them, loosening his cravat.

Phasma clears her throat, smile becoming forced. “Beta,” she calls, bringing attention back upon his rank. Lower than her own. “The punishment you tried to hand down to Mr Hux was not commanded by me. And now he is no longer your responsibility, as you had expressed wanting so many times before. Now then, now that's that's all settled, let's return to civility.”

It's taken her long enough to speak on the matter.

Ren sneers at Brendol from Hux's shoulder, arm secure around Hux's waist. In no way does Hux express interest in standing and returning to his previous seat.

The room has fallen silent.

Hux leans forwards, retrieving his cup of tea, Finn aiding him slightly, pushing it within Hux's range. Slowly, leaning back against Ren's solid chest, he sips, letting his eyes fall shut. “Father,” Hux says, placing his tea cup back down once again. He dares be cheeky, he dares be awful. “Does it displease you so to see me still breathe?”

Brendol reacts as anticipated, already angry and aggitated.

He explodes into a rage, cheeks once again their famously ruddy complexion. “Why you ungrateful--” Brendol Hux does not finish the thought, tearing off his human skin, bones snapping, fur growing. Brendol Hux becomes a wolf, snarling and yapping, leaping at Hux.

“Stop,” Phasma commands, pleased as Brendol's body falls short of where it had intended on landing. Brendol—now a large, brindle-colored wolf—bristles, barking out several short yips, no doubt curses.

“Remember, _I_ am Alpha,” Phasma cautions.

Brendol, fur bristling, making him appear larger, does not back down.

Phasma clears her throat and then her skull transforms, jaw breaking and reforming, fur growing to cover her features. Phasma enters her Anubis form, the form a proof of her Alpha status—the head of a wolf, the body of a human. “Stand down,” she growls, voice a mixture of human and wolf, commanding the ultimate authority of werewolf society.

The Beta has no choice but to do so, overly fluffed tail coming between his legs. Brendol does not return to human form—but Phasma does, losing her wolven head.

“That's settled,” Phasma says. Her icy eyes stare at the shivering little Mitaka. “Mr Mitaka, please escort Commandant Hux back to his room.”

“Yes C-captain,” Mitaka squeaks out, standing quickly. He hauls the wolf up, black gloves sinking into dark fur and drags the unwilling werewolf away.

“Should I help?” Matthew asks, glasses slipping down his nose. He rises to his feet quickly, eager to be of some help, eager to impress the Alpha. Curiously, he wears a thick pair of gloves made of some fine material, much finer than a man like him should be able to afford. Perhaps a gift for the first cavalier of the season.

Phasma shakes her head. “No, that won't be necessary, Mr Matthew.” Still, she tilts her head, two lower ranked werewolves standing and following Mitaka—insurance that Brendol will not attack again or dare to challenge his Alpha's authority.

Matthew sits down, frowning.

The tea party attempts to continue, chats among its guests becoming more and more halting.

“Mr Finn,” Hux says, leaning closer to his direction, Ren's hands still warming his midsection, even through layers. “Mr Poe is still on call, yes?”

Finn looks at him curiously, dark eyes lingering on Hux's face. “Yes, he is. Are you not feeling well, Mr Hux?”

He shakes his head, softly, barely. This must work. He flutters a hand to his chin, tapping an index against his lip. “Yes, I am not... So could you call Mr Poe? I'd like to go home—but I do not wish to disturb the evening's proceedings.”

Phasma looks at him, quite curiously. “Go ahead, Mr Finn. I hope you don't mind, Lord Ren, but Mr Hux does look quite ill.” Phasma—wolfish to her last—throws him a wink once she thinks Ren is not looking her way.

Finn stands, rushing towards the crystalline transmitter, quickly sending a message to Poe. Thankfully, London's greatest coachman works around an odd schedule, famously catering to a mostly supernatural set of clients. He'd arrive at the London pack's house before long.

“Yes, I would imagine so,” Ren manages, pouring himself more of his dreadful tea. “Would you like me to escort you back too?” Ren asks, daring to sound charmingly hopeful, as if he'd like to be the one to tuck Hux into bed.

“No, that won't be necessary,” Hux assures. “I will be fine... If anything occurs, Mr Poe will be there.”

Ren sighs quietly, to himself. “Mr Hux, get plenty of rest then. You do need it.” He squeezes Hux's waist somewhat in a hug or some other such affectionate gesture. It does not really relay the emotions it is meant to, but Ren had tried.

Hux nods, agreeing.

“Yes, well, a chat with Commandant Hux seems to always be a harrowing experience, isn't it?” Phasma says, slightly amused by it. She stretches. “In fact, even _I_ find myself in need of a nap afterwards...”

The smaller group no longer consisted of any werewolf but Phasma herself. Mitaka would likely not return for the night. And now even Hux would be taking his leave.

Hux bundles himself up in his jacket and nods respectfully to his former Alpha and friends along with Ren himself. He collects the parasol, though he will not be needing it, not where he is going. He still looks terribly pale, especially against the darkness of his clothing and the darkness of the night sky.

“Well,” Hux begins. “I'll be off then,” once the crystalline transmitter confirms Poe's arrival.

He's met with a chorus of ' _good night_ 's and ' _have a safe journey_ 's.

They don't know how those blessings will be needed, entirely naïve to Hux's plans.

Hux helps himself into the wagon, relaxing into comfortable seats.

“Mr Hux,” Poe calls. “Are you sure about this?”

He hums softly, bending to retrieve a hat box left under the seat. He pries the lid off, finding the items he had requested: a top-hat, with tiny little gears sewn upon the band, a brown wig smelling suspiciously of power, a smaller version of the Obstructor Rey had installed into the parasol, and several falsified documents.

“Excellent work Mr Poe,” Hux says, quite pleased. “Be sure to send Miss Rey my regards.”

Poe clicks his tongue, bringing his horses to a trot. “It's a crazy plan, Mr Hux. Dangerous,” he cautions.

“Haven't you had your fair share of danger?” Hux calls back, speaking through the slot between the wagon and the driver's seat. “I am aware you have worked for the Bureau.”

Poe laughs, weaker now. “Oh, Mr Hux, let's not bring those days up. I no longer wish to work with the Bureau of Unnatural Registry or serve its purposes. I find myself disagreeing with their more conservative stances.”

Hux hums to himself. “I suppose that is a good thing,” he says, dryly. “Most of your clients now happen to be of supernatural inclinations. Tell me, what was it like, being a Pickleman driver too? You have such a busy history, Mr Poe.” He gives the wig a good shake, pulling it on over his head and following it with the top hat. Though hidden compartments are included in the structure of the hat, it would be tricky getting to them in a pinch. Hux instead places his tools within his inner coat pockets and hopes his disguise and paperwork will do most of the work.

“Not very pleasant,” Poe says, speaking freely. “Unkar Plutt is not a nice man.”

“Noted,” Hux says, already having an inkling of knowledge of the dreadful anti-supernaturalist. “He is the one that cared for Miss Rey during most of her childhood, yes?” he says, repressing a shudder at the thought.

“Yes indeed, just until Mr Kenobi formally adopted her,” Poe says. “Unkar Plutt just as awful as you'd imagine. Careful of his bully boys. They don't care, even when it comes to the law.”

Hux hums again. “Still, it is very odd. I must tell you, just in case if perhaps something goes terribly wrong--”

“It won't,” Poe says forcefully. “Don't speak of such things, Mr Hux.”

“Yes, but it may as well,” Hux argues. “And if the knowledge dies with me, then I fear our country will be going down a grim path.”

Poe hesitates. He sighs, sadly. “Fine,” he says slowly. “I'll hear it.”

Hux lets himself smile, well pleased. “For whatever reason, the Picklemen—famously anti-supernatural—have been sponsored by a vampire, specifically King Snoke.”

“Now... isn't that odd?”

“Yes, I thought so too. I just figured that it was due to the Picklemen and their more enhanced forms of mechanicals,” Hux says. “But when mechanical ladybugs attacked the Queen and mechanical ladybugs were seen with several known Picklemen... it becomes rather suspicious.”

“Seems like a solid connection. Have you reported to the Bureau yet?” Poe asks, still wanting to do things by the book.

“No,” Hux says unhappily, blinking away frustrated tears. “If I reported and requested for an investigation, it would look as if I were undermining my vampire. And Lord Ren refused to do so for me, all too loyal and trusting in Snoke.” He says so bitterly, unable to keep it from his works.

“Alright,” Poe says cautiously. The horses slow, the carriage comes to a halt. “Alright, Mr Hux, we're just about here. Or should I call you by the name you've found yourself, Mr Lucius Dyas?”

“Mr Dyas will do,” Hux says, speaking with clipped words.

Poe is the one who opens the carriage door, offering his assistance to Hux. Hux takes it, remaining silent, a sneer plastered onto his face. If he is to be accepted amongst the Picklemen, they must not see him being civil with a lowly commoner—even if Hux had in fact learned respect for said commoner while he had been in charge of coordinating trips for Phasma for so very long, all with Poe.

“Mr Dyas, will you walk up to the front door on your own or shall I come along and pose as a manservant?” Poe offers, tilting his head back to the slit between them, shooting Hux a silly smile.

“You've done enough,” Hux assures. He closes his eyes, steeling himself. “Thank you for what you've done, Mr Poe.”  
He sighs. “I guess I can't always win,” Poe says, seeming to wonder if his charm has disappeared on him. “If you don't come back safely to Lady Phasma or Lord Ren, then I will alert them both to your possible danger.”

“Don't,” Hux says weakly.

“Please, Mr Dyas,” he says. “Consider. There are people who care very much for you and would hate to see something bad happen.”

Hux rolls his eyes. “Oh Mr Poe, I think you'd best return to Mr Finn. He could use some of your sweet words and tender affections, certainly, after witnessing my father and his little outbursts tonight.”

Poe gapes at him. “Mr D-dyas?” he says, choking on the assumed name. “You've known?”

Hux raises a brow. “Dear, I think everyone knows about the two of you. You aren't quite stealthy about it.”

“Oh!” Poe says, finally embarrassed of his obvious flirtations.

Hux nods to him then, a quick and brief goodbye, hardly daring to cast him a smile.

 


	9. The Metanatural, Part One—Body Horror

He is accepted rather easily by the Picklemen in their home, thinking him a former professor of the Bunson's Academy and looking quite the part of the retired Mr Dyas that they remembered hazily. Hux, for the most part, had already looked and behaved as one would expect the engineering professor would from a school meant for elite little boys whose proclivities hinged a tad on the more dangerous side. With the wig and a slight alteration to his walk, his resemblance to the professor was rather uncanny.

“Mr Dyas, how good to meet you,” Unkar Plutt is sure to say, a rather high ranking man in the society, even though he hadn't completed his schooling. He is a strange looking man, skin pink and often shinny with sweat. His nose is rather bulbous, part of the reason he is snickered at and called the Blobfish behind his back. He offers Hux a hand and Hux shakes. The handshake is loose and moist, even through the layers of gloves.

“Mr Plutt,” Hux says, raising a brow. “Thank you for having me.”

Unkar sits, groaning as he lies back against the cushions of the couch. He makes himself larger, spreading his arms on either side.

Hux sits politely next to him, knees kept together, making himself small.

A Picklemen—really, a mere errand boy—comes in, a tray balanced upon his arm. Thick glasses dangle precariously from his nose. He smiles, shyly, before setting the tray down onto the table across them both. The boy pours tea into two cups, adding a spoonful of sugar to one before nodding respectfully and leaving.

“No clangermaids?” Hux asks, voice pointed and sharp. “How unusual... Are you perhaps low on funds, Mr Plutt?”

The Blobfish beside him guffaws, each hearty laugh shaking his form. “Oh Mr Dyas,” he says, dabbing at his eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “You are quite the comedian, yes? We have redirected our sources to a more important task.”  
Hux lets himself soften for the moment, letting himself smile, showing his teeth. “What on earth could be more important than tea and its presentation?” He shakes his head, continuing. “Haven't you been sponsored by the vampire Snoke? Surely, you can afford to employ more of your enhanced mechanicals.”

Unkar smiles, much too smugly for his taste.

“Oh, Mr Dyas,” he says, speaking slowly, like it is all a joke. “King Snoke has ordered quite a bit from us. Our mechanicals are top of the line.”

“The horse ones have already had incredible sales,” Hux hums, thinking of the revenue it'd bring in. He sips at his tea, finding it to be strangely bitter. Hux adds a spoonful of sugar and stirs, hoping to alleviate the strange taste.

“Yes indeed. A man of your talents would understand. Why bother with a living horse, one that needs to be fed and watered and given time to sleep, when mechanicals offer an even quicker way,” Unkar insists.

“Though, that makes me wonder,” Hux says, looking up, bright eyes meeting Unkar's own, conspiratorially. “Just why would a vampire have need of a mechanical horse? Can they not simply walk or run. The supernatural are much more physically enhanced than us both.”

Unkar leans in close, as if he is about to diverge a great secret.

Hux humors him, staying still as the blobfish leans ever closer.

“King Snoke,” Unkar breathes into Hux's ear. “Has reasons to be on our side. The key reason would be his own status--”

Hux's face screws up, communicating his confusion rather than his disgust. “His status? Forgive me, Mr Plutt, but I do not think a vampire, especially one capable of creating other vampires, should have any reason to stand with you, to stand with us.” He speaks in a hurry, words collapsing together.

Incredulously, Unkar's smile does not fall.

Somehow, it only grows brighter.

“But Mr Dyas, that is where you are fundamentally wrong.”

Hux crosses his arms over his thin chest, lips thinning together. “Enlighten me then, if you will.”

“King Snoke is not a vampire.”

Hux scoots away, taking a refreshing sip of slightly-bitter slightly-sweet tea. “Forgive me, but--” he cannot help the expression that crosses his face, a mixture of disbelief and puzzlement, “--what do you mean? What else could King Snoke be?”

“King Snoke has contacted us Picklemen, revealing two things,” Unkar says, freely giving away too many secrets. “First of all, most shockingly to me, is that he is not supernatural, but a _metanatural_!”

“H-how can that be?” Hux mutters, sipping once again.

He had _seen_ Snoke. He had _seen_ twin pairs of fangs in the mouth of an ancient and decaying creature.

Which did not match up with records both the Bureau of Unnatural Registry and the few case studies done by scientists of what ought to be expected from a metanatural. Firstly, metanaturals did not enjoy extended lifespans. Secondly, metanaturals simply ' _stole_ ' the powers of others, for brief periods at least. Never longer than a night's span.

“I mustn't forget your background,” Unkar insists. “Those textbooks can only be outdated. Metanaturals exist in a capacity we haven't even studied yet!”

“Explain yourself. I haven't a clue what you mean...”

“Metanaturals don't have to steal the abilities of others,” Unkar says slowly. “They can steal bodies.”

The cup wobbles in Hux's grasp, a drop of tea spilling out and soaking into Hux's pants. “Ah,” he breathes. “Interesting... but how is that possible?”

“Something to do with the excess soul being drained from the host body to give the metanatural its new form,” says Unkar. “We haven't done any experiments, you see. It'd be very hard to get any results from so few test subjects.”

Hux sets the tea cup down, settling back into the couch. He feels overwarm and sated, strangely enough. “And King Snoke wants a new body then? Are you pouring all your money into that absurd expenditure? Surely, you should focus your efforts on continuing your mechanical inventions.”

“But do you not understand? King Snoke needs a body,” Unkar repeats. “And that blasted Queen, surely, she is one of excess soul, wouldn't you think? To see her favor supernaturals over us average folk, it is frustrating...”

“You suggest treason, Mr Plutt,” Hux says, voice clipped once again.

Unkar shakes his bald head. “Mr Dyas, if we regain the government and its support, then we will be put back in power. Finally, humanity will be put first, with preternaturals and metanaturals to police those dratted supernaturals.”

He shakes his head. “You really think King Snoke will keep his word? What's to stop him from leaving you after he finds himself a new body? After all, he'd been content, living as a king, for the past few hundred years. What is so special about you that he'd need you?” Hux scowls, light mood leaving him.

He's found information.

Conspiratorial information.

He needs to exit the situation before it escalates.

“Mr Dyas, if you truly doubt me, then please speak to King Snoke himself.”

Hux raises a brow. He cannot stop himself from speaking. “Mr Plutt, that seems rather difficult, but I suppose I'll keep it in mind.” He sighs. “I'd like to call a carriage for pickup. I simply cannot stay longer, not after this ridiculous conversation.”

Unkar's grubby hand catches him on the wrist. “I implore you. Stay a little longer.” He hauls Hux to his feet, rather rudely, shockingly enough.

Hux shoots him a strange, halting look. “Mr Plutt!” he cries out, outraged. “Unhand me this instant.”

“No,” Unkar says, pale face much too close for comfort. “You are coming with me. King Snoke will change your mind—I'll see to it!”

His heart leaps to his throat. “What do you mean, Mr Plutt? What? King Snoke cannot be _here_! Let go of me! You've gone mad! Absolutely bonkers!”

But Unkar's grip only tightens. “Mr Dyas, I told you I will be proving you wrong. Don't struggle.” Then, Unkar, with all of his strength, tosses Hux over his shoulder, much like some sack of flour. “I said stop your struggling!”

Hux wriggles, banging his balled up fists against Unkar's large back. His hits do not make much of an impact.

“I will be taking _legal_ actions, you hear? _Legal_ actions against this mistreatment! Let go of me, _Unkar_. This is your last chance,” Hux spits, furious, shaking, terrified. His quickened heartbeat must have been felt by the blobfish that carries him!

Unkar takes quick steps, not dignifying Hux's outburst, and drags him down a flight of stairs.

The air changes there—becoming colder, even slightly damp. The Picklemen mansion contained a laboratory in the basement, along with several holding cells.

But all this knowledge does not prepare him from the sight of _King Snoke_ of _vampires_ sitting regally in a Picklemen-owned basement.

Snoke sits there, face grey and wrinkled, twisted even. He wears a grey, formless cloak about his skeletal frame—possibly the same cloak Hux had first seen him in. His eyes watch Hux carefully, tearing right through his simple disguise.

“Mr Plutt,” Snoke says, each word slow and drawn out. “Who have you brought me?” A smile cuts a curve onto the flat grey of the ancient being's face.

“King Snoke, please meet Mr Lucius Dyas, a prominent professor from Bunson's even now in his retirement.” Unkar's grip on Hux's shoulder doesn't let up.

Snoke laughs easily enough, as if the deception is of no consequence. “But Mr Plutt, you've been tricked.”

Hux's heart falls to his stomach. Wriggling, he pulls his muffpistol from the inside of his jacket and fires off two clumsy rounds at Snoke's chest.

But the bullets never reach Snoke.

Instead, the lose their momentum and begin to float aimlessly in the air. Snoke brushes them aside with one skeletal hand. Then, using the same vampiric magic that Ren himself has access to, Snoke takes the gun from Hux, pinching the front of it closed ever so easily.

Unkar gapes at him, now springing into action, terribly delayed.

“Who are you?” Unkar asks, grip unbearably tight on Hux's shoulder.

“Mr Plutt, please meet Mr Armitage Hux, drone to Lord Kylo Ren, vampire and advisor to the Queen herself.” Snoke looks all too pleased with himself, much like a cat who's caught its mouse. “Perhaps we do not need to get to the Queen herself then.”

He smiles, toothily, all three pairs of fangs catching the light.

“Bring him to me.”

Snoke's bony hand cupping his cheek is all it takes to extinguish his consciousness...

Something, Hux thinks as his consciousness flickers and fades, about Snoke is terribly wrong. It's like his very body is decomposing.

*

Sensations return first.

_Softness of a bed underneath him._

_Cold of something large and uncomfortable draped over him._

_Latched at his throat._

_Blood, leaving._

_Venom..._

_Ren had mentioned venom._

_Entering his veins in place of blood?_

_And a third pair of fangs._

_What are they for?_

He cannot move. He forgets to breathe, then starts again, shivering, shuddering, seizing, all uncontrollably.

Darkness again.

He doesn't know how long he lies unconscious.

Hux awakes, sprawled onto his belly, shirt torn away from his neck, deep puncture wounds glossy with venom. His body is overheated, sweaty. His eyes droop down without his permission.

There, on the bed and motionless, Snoke lies.

The ancient body does not breathe, does not move. And then something curious happens underneath Snoke's skin—some strange movement, as skin tightens, looking more and more like those eerie mummies of Egypt. The body—still and strange—continues twisting in its postmortem dance.

His long, claw tipped fingers turn to ash, crumbling upon clean bedsheets.

From dust, to dust.

Somehow, he hadn't thought that phrase had applied to anything but humans.

Hux feels his throat again, trembling fingers teasing the red and inflamed wound. He opens his mouth, feeling his teeth, feeling no difference than what he'd had before.

He must leave.

Before Snoke... or whatever _remains_ of Snoke is found.

Before the Picklemen return...

Hux is shaky when he stands, stumbling forwards, fingers digging into the soft blankets that cover the bed, dirtied with what could only be his blood. He wobbles to the closet, in desperate need of something else to wear.

His clothing is ruined, firstly, and he cannot even consider going out into public as he is.

He'd need another disguise, something the Picklemen would not dare to imagine him in.

“Oh, Miss Rey,” Hux murmurs, gratefulness all too apparent with his fever-addled emotional state. The closet doors open to reveal dresses, all in light, gentle colors, meant for a young girl. Some were overlarge for Rey herself and would be long enough for Hux.

Out of some sort of strange idiocy or sentimentality, the Picklemen household had kept all of Rey's old gowns, even after she had graduated Finishing School and marked herself as an independent lady.

He pushes the racks of gowns around, finding the most conservative one and tosses it onto the bed, right over Snoke's rapidly decomposing body. It is a gown, several years old but still somewhat passable. The neck is high, a nearly perfect fit to cover the newest set of fangmarks, and the sleeves are long, sure to cover the rest. The gown is a pale blue color, typical for a young girl who is to be courted and wed. That gorgeous shade of blue is accented best by white frills and tiny embroidered flowers of a darker blue, keeping it from being too plain.

He raids more cabinets and closets, finding a pair of stockings, garters, corset, camisole, and drawers. From the biggest closet, he pulls out several fluffy petticoats, feeling just how soft the fabric is.

Hux strips, tossing his ruined clothing in a heap. Quickly, he pulls on the layers, hoping everything to be proper looking. The stockings clipped to the garters—that he knew from some of Mitaka's favored novels, little books of filth and no more. What he didn't quite know was the garters clipped to the corset as well. He supposes he does a poor job, but excuses it do to rush and fever that ruins his grip.

The corset hooks in the front and Hux finds himself capable in that regard, tightening it and enhancing his already slim waist-line. If he weren't in a hurry, he muses, perhaps he'd admire the view in the floor length mirror.

He chalks the last thought up to his delusional and blood-deprived mind.

The camisole goes over easily, and so do the fluffy petticoats, letting the embroidered petticoat lay over the more plain ones, just in case it comes into view. The design, intricate and beautiful, deserved to be seen.

He pulls the gown over his dress only then, nearly getting lost in the fabric, teetering this way and that.

He finds proper accessories for a lady—slightly yellowed gloves, a pretty little parasol that surely lacked the tools Hux found himself accustomed too, and a sun hat that would help to cover his face and prevent his identification.

Rey, though her dresses had fit him decently enough, did not have the decency to have the same sized feet as him, Hux thinks unfortunately, pulling on his own formal shoes, a tad too formal considering the rest of his getup, but thankfully kept hidden underneath skirts.

The muffpistol, broken and probably discarded of, cannot be relied on for his protection.

Hux searches through his discarded clothing, finding the Obstructor and tucking it into his corset. He curses then, finding nothing else of use in Rey's room.

*

He's hardly given pause when he stumbles down the stairs, gloved fingers clinging tightly to the guardrails. His head spins upon his shoulders, much too light, almost like he's empty.

“Oi,” one of the bully boys calls, a bottle of some drink held in one of his calloused hands. His friends don't even move, lying rather still upon the floor, more bottles gathered about them. A celebration, likely. “Miss, are you doing alright?” He's a thick looking young man, all muscles and no brains. He looks as drunk as Hux feels, equally unsteady on his feet.

Hux musters up his best falsetto. “Yes, I am quite well,” he says, voice unnaturally high. He digs his newly found parasol into the flooring at his feet, holding himself shyly, coyly, hiding underneath the hat.

“Just where are you going?” the man asks, stepping closer. “Unescorted?”

He shakes his head, just a tad frantic as another dizzy spell hits him. “I am meeting a lady friend. We shall be in one another's company, perfectly safe, I assure you.”

The bully boy accepts it easily, slinking off, not even wondering why a _woman_ was in the house. Hux shakes the head, almost laughing.

He leaves the house, stepping out into bright sunlight. Hux ducks his head, wincing. His skin burns, unfortunately, when the sun kisses it. He pulls the sunhat lower, warding off burns and unfashionable freckles.

He might be strangely sick, but he still has his wits about him. Then, swaying slightly with the breeze and the fever that's taken him, Hux makes his way to a publicly available crystal transmitter.

Which means a public park, just a jaunt away.

He sweats, unfortunately again, underneath the sunlight. The camisole should prevent stains on the beautiful dress but Hux cannot guarantee he won't faint and ruin the dress another way.

There are not many people out at this hour. Those that do wander, don't lay eyes on him for long, sensing something is not quite right with the figure that sways so readily.

He dials Poe's number sloppily, pausing at times to steady himself. Quickly, he types a message requesting a ride, going so far as to sign it with an _H._

The response is prompt:

_Will arrive within ten minutes. Stay where you are. --P.D._

Hux smiles to himself, walking over to an empty bench. He seats himself, nearly collapsing.

And then he does the unthinkable.

Armitage Hux, twenty-six years old and scary, dressed in a woman's gown, manages to fall asleep while sitting up, waiting for his ride.

*

“Hey there,” Poe says softly, worriedly, shaking Hux's shoulder. “Miss Armie, please wake up.”

Hux does so, groggily. He winces as sunlight meets his eyes. He adjusts the sunhat, pulling it lower over his face. “Good morning Mr Dameron,” he says, quietly, not quite wanting to use his falsetto once again.

“You don't look so good,” Poe says, a frown growing on his face. He offers Hux his elbow—truly inappropriate but the situation demands it.

Hux lets out a tittering giggle. “What gave it away?” He leans a good deal of his weight on Poe. They must look strange. Hux makes for a rather tall woman. If only Phasma were here, he thinks sadly. She's quite possibly the tallest woman in all of London.

Poe shakes his head, escorting Hux to the waiting carriage. One of the orange horses snorts at them both, clearly disapproving of Hux's disguise.

“I tried my best,” Hux tells the horse, face twisting in bitterness.

“I know you did,” Poe comforts, helping him into the back.

Hux settles against the plush seat, letting himself be comfortable. He shuts his eyes, letting out a deep breath. Inside the wagon, it is much cooler, with much less sunlight streaming through.

“I'll go to the front now... please promise to not die,” Poe mutters, worry so very clear in his words. Even quieter, he mutters, “Then two of us would be dead at the end of the day... Lord Ren will surely have my head...”

Hux waves him off, smiling sillily.

Had Poe always been so amusing?

*

He wakes up again, this time rather uncomfortably.

He's lying on a couch, a blanket draped over his body, all the way to his chin. The sunhat had been removed but every other layer remained.

Rey is seated in a chair close by.

The smell of tea lingers in the air—some sort of herbal variety.

“Oh, Mr Hux,” Rey says, face absolutely ashen, streaks across her cheeks. Surely... she hasn't cried for _him,_ has she? “I-I don't know what's wrong... I've sent for Lord Ren and Lady Phasma a-and Lady Phasma will bring her medimechanical. Please... stay awake.”

“I'm afraid... I'm still wearing your hand-me-down dress,” Hux moans. He's far too cold, even while wearing so many layers and a blanket to boot.

She smiles, tinged with concern. “That's nothing to worry yourself about. I think perhaps that blue is not your color though. Try a green dress next time. It'd rather compliment your eyes.”

“The blue matches my eyes just fine,” Hux snorts in protest.

“Whatever you say,” Rey acquiesces. “Here, sit up.”

She helps him in the gargantuan task, propping him up with pillows. Only then does she hand the cup of tea to him.

“Drink up,” Rey instructs.

Hux does so, wincing at its bitterness. “Tastes horrid, Miss Rey,” he says, balking at it. It feels as if it leaves a thin film over his tongue. “A crime against the very nature of tea.”

She smiles, weakly.

“It's supposed to taste bad,” she chides. “It's roasted dandelion root, tulsi, and ginger. It should warm you up and help with any stress bothering you. Or... at least, that's what it promises.”

Hux scowls, takes another sip, shuddering at the taste. He looks at her sadly, “Is it possible for us to sweeten it somewhat? Just a tad?”

Rey frowns. “I've already added your customary one spoonful.”

“Some teas require more, my dear,” he says sagely, committing an act of treason against his preference in tea. But Rey doesn't need to hear him admit to that.

The lady accepts it, nodding slowly. She leans over the table, taking the little sugar dish and spoons another two spoonfuls of sugar into Hux's tea.

He drinks it again and deems it good enough.

“Thank you,” Hux says sweetly, smiling even as he shudders. He places the tea cup back down onto the table and rolls over on the couch, pulling the blanket closer to himself.

“Oh no! Mr Hux! You mustn't sleep,” Rey says, shaking him thoroughly.

“Hm...? Then what am I to do?” he asks. He can barely keep his eyes open, especially after that tea. Whatever is in it happened to be rather quick at doing its job.

“Please... just... wait.”

But Hux has never been very good at listening to the suggestions of others.

*

When he wakes up, Ren is there. He's pale, paler than usual, watching Hux with some curious expression. He sits on the floor, like a dog, leaning closer now that Hux has blinked himself awake.

“Hux,” he breathes, pressing a warm hand against Hux's clammy skin. “You're so cold...”

He closes his eyes, swallows. “Ren,” he manages. “Tell me, do we still have that dreadful tea?”

Ren presses the teacup against Hux's parched lips. The awful tea has gone cold, but he drinks anyway, desperate for something to wet his throat. He sighs, loud and deep.

“Rey, can you get more tea?” Ren calls, yelling much too loud.

Hux winces.

Ren turns his eyes back to his miserable looking drone. He brushes hair away from Hux's forehead. “I know there must be a fun story behind your state of dress,” Ren says, smiling almost charmingly, almost rougishly, “but I will wait for Phasma's arrival.”

“I do not think it'd be appropriate for Miss Rey to dress me,” Hux snips.

“Fair point,” Ren admits. “Are you cold, Hux?”

“Yes,” Hux mutters, wriggling to the side, making space for his vampire. “Come on then.”

It doesn't take much convincing for Ren to crawl underneath the blanket, hugging Hux's side. Hux breathes out loudly, sighing in relaxation at the influx of temperature. The vampire notices, smiling cheekily.

Ren nuzzles the high neck of the dress, kissing Hux through the fabric.

“I was worried,” Ren breathes, hot even through layers. “When I came home and only Millicent came to greet me...” He squeezes Hux reduced waist, just slightly. “You understand? I was afraid.”

Hux doesn't answer, only too pleased by the surrounding warmth, practically purring.

“It seems it was right for me to be afraid,” Ren mutters.

 


	10. The Metanatural, Part Two—Possession

“What's wrong with him?” Ren demands, voice all around him.

“Haven't a clue,” Phasma mutters. “The medimechanical must be broken. It's not picking up enough blood to give any sort of reading.” A hollow thunk resounds through the room—the sound of Phasma giving her mechanical a good thrashing.

Rey gasps. “Ren, pull down his gown. Just check!” she sounds frantic, pacing this way and that.

And Ren does so, pulling at the soft fabric around Hux's throat.

Gasps all around.

He's shaken, like a rag doll.

“Hux,” Ren says, sounding far too heartsick to be fair. “ _What_ did this to you?”

“ _Three_ fangs?” Rey says.

“That's... not a thing, is it?” Phasma sounds unsure. One of her brows arches up in disbelief. She'd recognize werewolf teeth. Ren would recognize vampire bites—feeders and birthers.

Hux opens his eyes, wincing at the harsh light and the harsher looks.

“Would you believe me if I were to say Snoke tried to kill me?” he says, unable to keep his lips from quirking up in a goofy smile.

“Snoke? Hux that doesn't make sense. He's... he's on his island,” Ren assures. “He hardly ever leaves his island. A-and he surely doesn't have three pairs of fangs! I would have noticed over the years.” He says the last part quietly, growing doubtful.

“Either I am wrong or you have a startling amount of trust for that creature,” Hux mutters, letting his eyes fall shut again. “Anyway, I think he's gone off and died instead.”

That certainly catches their attention more than anything.

He's met with a chorus of ' _what'_ s and shock.

Ren shakes him again. “Hey. Hux! You can't leave it at that. What do you mean he's 'gone off and died?'” The vampire sounds afraid, heart sinking for the vampire king and only father figure he'd ever mentioned.

“Said he's metanatural,” Hux says, nuzzling closer into that warmth. “And then he died.”

*

“I think he's waking up again,” calls out some familiar voice.

Hux opens his eyes, realizes he's been moved. He lies in some plush bed, blankets layered on top of his thin frame.

Matthew, cavalier of the London werewolf pack, pours him a cup of tea. “How do you take your tea, Mr Hux?”

“Is it that dreadful herbal concoction of Miss Rey's?”

Matthew looks down at the offending tea pot. “Um, yeah, I think so?”

Hux rolls his eyes. “Oh, three spoons then.”

He does so, without saying another word.

“Mr Matthew, not to be mean or to cause any hurt feelings... but just why are you here?” Hux asks.

“Phasma wanted to borrow me. Said I might be useful here,” Matthew confesses, handing him the tea cup. Hux drinks, finding hardly any refreshment in it.

“Where's everyone else?” he asks.

Matthew frowns, brown eyes glancing to the side. “Lord Ren went off. Said he needed to find someone.”

“Oh great,” Hux mutters, throwing a arm over his eyes. “Just when I thought I had use for his stupid warmth.”

The cavalier has the audacity to blush, coughing and going to cover his mouth with a gloved hand, probably not used to such brash language regarding bodies.

“Now tell me,” Hux says, coughing as well. His throat feels dry, constricting. His lungs feel empty. He breathes in, startling himself, at how strangely it feels. “Where's everyone else gone off too?”

Matthew smiles, weak. “Would you believe me if I said Phasma and Rey were studying?”

He closes his eyes. “I must be dreaming,” Hux murmurs to himself.

“Hmm... but you aren't,” Matthew assures. “I'm afraid they don't know what's wrong with you.” He brushes a hand against Hux's forehead, feeling just how cold Hux has gotten. “Does anything hurt?”

“Jaw,” Hux mutters.

“Huh?” Matthew says, blinking slowly. He looms over Hux. “Open up. Let me see.”

Hux does so, having no energy to fight.

“ _Shit_ ,” Matthew says, growing pale. “Y-you're growing teeth!”

*

Rey and Phasma crowd into the room, crowding over Hux and examining the inside of his mouth.

“Well,” Phasma says after a minute long study. “That's unusual...”

“You don't say?” Hux mumbles, closing his eyes. He's never felt so _exhausted!_ He just wants to sleep, cuddled up to something warm, but of course Ren hadn't returned yet so he could not even have that!

“You said Snoke bit you, right?” Rey asks, looking worried, looking again at the wounds on Hux's throat. She shakes her head, stray strands of hair escaping her buns. “Definitely not vampire bite marks,” she says. “And you're not growing fangs in the proper place either.” She sounds stumped—only ever considering the existence and power of vampires and werewolves alone.

His extra teeth poke their head from his gums, an awfully painful and unusual place to come from.

“What else could it be though? Not a werewolf bite, that's for sure,” Phasma says.

“I _told_ you,” Hux protests weakly. “Metanatural.”

Rey shakes her head. “Mr Hux, no one's seen a metanatural in centuries and they don't have fangs, not for so long. I cannot accept what you say alone, especially when your body is fluctuating between an extreme fever and cold.”

“We've nothing to talk about then,” Hux mutters, suddenly so very tired of it all, closing his eyes.

Sleep, once again, is calling.

*

He's woken up by shaking.

Hux blinks groggily, looking up at the face that hovers before him.

Ren. Whose hair falls around his face, partially obscuring wet eyes. He's frowning, much too sad for his already gloomy face, hands still wrapped around Hux's shoulders, shaking, shaking, shaking.

“Hux,” he breathes, in relief, face relaxing. “Here.”

Without asking or waiting, Ren props Hux up with some pillows. He presses a tea cup to Hux's mouth, forcing him to drink the chilled milk.

And Ren isn't alone.

Techie, Madeline's false ghost wrangler, sits on a chair at Hux's bedside, veil cast aside to reveal his ghastly face. The eyes, repaired—if just _slightly_ —by Hux himself, seem to cause him less problems; the redness and swelling that had plagued them has gone down. He smiles, weakly.

“Hello brother,” Techie says softly, hair looking much softer and much more radiant. They'd probably let him take a bath.

“Who's told you about that?” Hux snorts.

“I did,” Ren admits, looking ashen.

He watches Hux's thin chest go up and down with every breath, eyes so very warm and so very watery. He looks so emotional, as if he'll burst into sobs at any moment. It's... odd, reminds Hux of when he and Ren had first met—back when the man was a dandy with severe emotional outbursts.

“What's with you?” Hux mutters, scooting further underneath the sheets, making room.

Ren takes it as an invitation, crawling into bed alongside Hux, pressing his massive form close. He wraps an arm around Hux's waist, pulling him impossibly closer, resting his other hand over Hux's chest.

“Your heart,” Ren says, that grief-filled frown returning to his features. “I swore it stopped.”

“Yes, well,” Hux says airily. It might as well have.

He feels quite dead.

“What's happened to Lady Madeline?” Hux asks, staring at Techie.

The younger man squirms underneath that much attention. “Ah,” he breathes instead. “I think Lord Ren would have a better idea of what happened.”

And Ren does, nuzzling against Hux's skin, breathing in his scent. “Lady Madeline has been arrested. And so have some Picklemen, including Unkar Plutt. Under the suspicion of treason, or so the Bureau has said.”

Hux doesn't say anything, stays deathly still.

“Hux?” Ren says, sounding uncertain now. “I thought you'd love to hear it.”

“And what of Snoke?” Hux can only mumble, bringing a hand up to prod at the fang marks. “Haven't they found him? I escaped while he was unconscious...”

“Hux, you're sick,” Ren says, much too kind and gentle, almost caring. “You should stop with the accusations. I'm not sure what the Picklemen have done to you... but you are safe now.” Even quieter, with more hesitation, “There were many sick experiments in their basement laboratory. They've tried something on you. You must fight it.”

Hux rolls his eyes. “Right,” he says, utterly unconvinced.

Techie watches, frowning.

*

“--something wrong with--”

“How--”

“We need a--”

“No-- a _priest_ \--”

“No,” Techie says, speaking rather confidently for once. “What we need is a soulless.”

“And where do you propose we find one on such short notice?” Finn asks, sounding worried. Why is he worried? When did he get here? “You're not one. Do you know of any others?”

Techie makes a soft noise. The poor boy is probably close to tears. Helpless. He's so helpless.

“The medimechanical is convinced he's dead,” Phasma mutters. “But his eyes still move and his lungs still work--”

“And then there is the issue of the teeth,” Rey mutters, tapping a finger against Hux's jawline.

He opens his eyes, just a slit, wincing at the intensity of the light.

“Ah! Hux, you're awake,” Rey cries out, taking a step back from the bed, careful not to crowd him.

None of his other guests are that considerate.

“What's going on?” Hux asks, voice coming out weak.

Ren floats him a tea cup, this time filled with barley water. Hux drinks, grimacing all the while. If one were to add _acid_ to it, perhaps it'd be an improvement.

“A discussion,” Phasma says.

“Just believe him,” Techie says, folding his hands together. He gnaws on his bottom lip. “Just believe that Snoke--” and how bitterly Techie says the name! “--happens to be a metanatural and seek treatment based on that.” He blinks furiously, as if holding back tears.

This outburst inspires scowls from those gathered.

Matthew takes a step closer to Techie, nodding. “Mr Techie,” he says, “but where would one find a soulless person? We can't call the Organas from America. The travel time, even with a dirigible, would be too much.”

Ren looks awfully bitter at that.

_Just how had the Organas wronged him?_

Phasma raises a brow most curiously. “I am under the impression that the Bureau is keeping a soulless hostage, the very same soulless that had attempted to murder the Queen and had successfully murdered Miss Bazine.”

“She'd know,” Hux groans, horribly sure of it, shutting his eyes, pained at the light. “She'd know the truth.”

His body feels _wrong_ in the moment. He shudders, bones creaking and groaning with each micromovement. His fingers twitch oddly, bones shifting underneath.

Ren looks at him, brows falling quite low. He opens his mouth, shuts it.

Phasma is the one to speak. “Miss Rey,” she says, putting the weight of the decision on the inventor. “What is your recommendation?”  
The lady of the house opens her mouth, looking at Phasma most curiously. She regains her airs and her confidence, a rather neutral expression creeping onto her face. “Request information from the Bureau?” she offers.

“It's a five to ten business day wait, Miss Rey,” Finn says with a frown.

Rey taps an impatient finger to her chin. “Yes,” she admits, deflating.

“I could...” Ren begins, face twisting in concentrating. Had Hux the energy, he'd deny Ren right there. “I could break into the Bureau and snatch up the impostor.”

“She's soulless,” Phasma reminds, watching as Ren's face falls. “It'd be rather difficult to cover all of your skin, dear.”

Hux falls asleep once more, unable to hear the rest of the frustrating debate.

*

Hux manages to look fragile, so very pale, skin underneath his eyes so thin and purple-tinged. Sometimes, his heart fails and stills. Sometimes, his lungs cease to function. And then his organs begin processing once again.

There is something terribly wrong with the drone, everyone is sure of it.

But no one had any concrete theories.

Metanaturals, Ren knows, did _not_ generally live longer than humans. Their powers had _limits_ too. Soul stealers, as they were sometimes called, could only steal the powers a person had, not insert themselves into a new body, as Hux had frantically claimed whenever he wokes.

Hux, whose body has gone icy cold, once again.

Hux, who had been delusional with fever when Poe found him.

Hux, who had thought one of Rey's old _gowns_ and a _sunhat_ would make a suitable disguise!

But they do not have any other ideas.

So why question Hux now, so very close to death?

The man moans weakly underneath the blanket, cheeks hot to the touch. Ren soaks a cloth in a bowl of water, wrings the excess out, and dabs at Hux's face. His eyes do not open and grace Ren with the strange, pale green-blue-grey-violet color.

“You're worried.” Techie walks so very quietly. Ren doesn't hear him until he's already in the room.

Ren turns his head, staring.

Rey had provided the young man with new clothing. He does not look particularly fancy or even vaguely appropriately dressed, as his brother would likely demand when he awoke; but Techie looked warm, even relaxed, in Rey's home. He wears a yellow knitted sweater, something Rey hadn't made, and relaxed slacks. His hair has been tied back, away from his face, not letting him hide his face any longer.

“I have the right to worry,” Ren says.

Techie smiles sadly, pulling up a chair and sitting in it. “Yes,” he says softly, eyes lowering to look at his hands, folded neatly in his lap. “You do.” He pauses, wetting his lips. “Phasma's gone to fill a request at the Bureau.”

“And what good will that do?” Ren scowls. He brushes a hand through Hux's hair, brushing sweat-damp hair away from his forehead. Hux does not stir under his ministrations, though his eyes move underneath their lids. He's dreaming, Ren thinks, perhaps too fondly.

“It's better than nothing,” Techie says.

He should know. All his life, he sat by and did nothing.

And now, it would seem, he's too late.

*

Matthew is a surprisingly interesting young man. He's dreadfully to the point, often taking things too literally, which only adds to the amusement. When Ren had asked for a splash of milk, Matthew had provided. And then realized his mistake when hot tea spilled out at the quick action, spilling over the rim of the tea cup.

Techie finds it amusing too, laughing behind his open hand.

The three of them—Matthew, Techie, and Ren—are the only ones currently staying in Rey's home, watching over Hux.

But for now, they sit in the foyer, taking their tea and talking quietly.

It wouldn't do to wake Hux.

Not when he looked so awfully ill and needed his rest.

“Mr Matthew,” Techie says, cheeks rosy and smile small and sweet. “You must be careful when pouring tea. You wouldn't want to burn yourself.”

The cavalier nods. “Yeah,” he says, cheeks ruddy too. “Sorry.”

“Don't apologize to Mr Techie,” Ren mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. “Apologize to my cup of tea.”

Matthew looks to Techie, who only laughs more.

At least, until the noises begin.

“What is that?” Ren mutters, coming to his feet. If anything were to happen, he would be the one to protect Techie and Matthew, both awfully human and terribly vulnerable.

“Brother!” Techie gasps, standing up quickly and dashing to his side, supporting Hux as he wobbles unsteadily into the foyer.

“Mr Hux,” Matthew says, pouring some tea and adding a good amount of sugar. “Here. Techie, help him down.”

Techie does, collapsing onto the couch beside his half-brother, who accepts the tea graciously and drinks.

His skin is pale, clammy, copper hair sticking to his forehead. His eyes are small. Hux is barely able to keep them open. And he hasn't said a word yet.

“Ren,” Hux says, as if hearing Ren's very thoughts.

He moves in a heartbeat, kneeling before Hux. “What is it?” he asks, resting a gloved hand on Hux's equally covered knee.

Almost shyly, Hux reaches for him, placing his uncovered hands on Ren's cheeks. His hands are so cold and clammy, thumbs clumsily brushing against Ren's cheeks.

And then something unusual occurs.

Ren's immortality fades away, leaving him equally mortal.

“Hux?” he asks, looking desperately into those beautiful, intelligent eyes.

He does not see the man he's grown fond of.

His eyes are black, no light reflecting off of them.

Not-Hux smiles, almost pleasantly, opening his mouth. Two new sets of fangs have grown in. “Hello,” Not-Hux says, voice just a tad higher and more nasal than Hux's one. He smiles curiously, closing his moth once again, thinning his lips, smiling in an un-Hux-like manner.

Easily, he lets go of Ren, who falls to the floor, weak.

Even more easily, Not-Hux stands and begins to walk towards the entrance.

Techie jumps to his feet, coming before Hux. Quickly, quietly, and possibly with more bravery than Ren thought possible, Techie grabs Hux's pale arms by the elbows. He comes close, crowding. “Brother,” he says, voice soft and weak. “Armitage... what are you doing?”

“Techie, move!” Matthew calls, coming to his feet. The dear human poses no threat at all, completely arm-less.

The false ghost wrangler doesn't exactly move.

Instead he is moved.

By Hux. Not-Hux. Whoever it may be within that body.

Not-Hux shoves Techie hard, forcing the youth to come crashing down, hitting his head on a wall.

The offender does not so much as flinch at the awful noise, of Techie's head bouncing off of something tough. Techie doesn't move, stays collapses on the ground, limbs sprawled.

Matthew roars, picking up a chair and throwing it.

And Ren had thought his own tantrums to be destructive!

The chair cracks solidly against Not-Hux's skull, causing him to stumble forth. He doesn't collapse like Ren or Techie, but draws himself to full height, turning his head back. His dark eyes have lightened, but they're still _wrong_ : they've turned an unnatural shade of yellow, like a _beast_.

“Do not make me cross with you,” the Not-Hux advises.

He opens the door, swinging it with much too much force and steps outside, into the darkness of night.

“Lord Ren!” Matthew calls, face pale and sweaty. “After him! You're the fastest.”

Ren shakes his head, holding his hands before himself helplessly. “I'm mortal,” he breathes, hands coming upwards to feel for his fangs. They're gone. He is mortal once again. “How?”

“Shit,” Matthew curses, kneeling beside Techie's limp form. He looks to Ren, eyes wide and wet. “Snoke really is a metanatural.” He accepts Hux's feverish words _now!_

Ren shakes his head, heart sinking. “Snoke wouldn't...”

But if he hadn't known of Snoke's nature, then what else hadn't he known?

His shoulders slump, curling inwards. They failed Hux, failing to believe in him. And now they wouldn't get him back.

Carefully, Matthew picks up Techie, sliding his hands underneath Techie's knees and behind his back. Even more gently, he places Techie onto one of the couches.

“Still,” Matthew says, frowning greatly. “Please, Lord Ren, go after him. You have a carriage and horses! And you know how to use them. You must warn the Queen! Whatever _Snoke_ \--” and how he spits the name, playing ever so gently with Techie's overgrown hair, “--is planning, you must prevent.”

Ren scowls, nods, unsure of the storm brewing in his heart. “Alright.”

And it isn't like Not-Hux will get very far, dressed in sleep clothing and left barefoot, so very close to dawn. It seems like Ren has the advantage.

At least for the moment.

“I'll be off,” he says, gruff. “Take care of Techie. And-- message BUR about what's going on!”

“Right,” Matthew says, sounding so very assured about it. Less assuredly, he mutters, “How do I muse an aetherographic crystal?”

“Wake up Techie,” Ren barks, giving up.

And then he runs out, not heading Matthew's advice.

Who needs a carriage when one can ride a horse?

*

Perhaps it is not a conventional sight, seeing Lord Ren, a vampire, riding a horse as fast as it will go, even as the sun slowly rises. His skin does not sizzle or burn—though it might redden later on, a much weaker version of what would happen to a true vampire.

He curses himself, curses himself for failing Hux.

But Snoke.

Snoke, he curses most of all.

The palace comes into view, beautiful and regal as ever. Ren forces the horse to slow and then jumps off, remembering how the pain truly feels, now he lacks his supernatural healing. He cannot hold back a wince.

There are no conscious guards to be seen. A few lie in heaps on the hard ground, bleeding from unseen wounds.

Not-Hux—Snoke--has taken Ren's immortality, has taken Ren's drone and long-time crush, has taken too much already.

How could Ren have been so blind?

He pushes through an opened gate, running to an entrance. All around, royal guards lie unconscious.

If Snoke had wanted the Queen from the start, what really was stopping him? Ren wonders. There is no subtly behind this attack, not in daylight hours, not when so many bodies are left where they fall.

Ren creeps into the building, lingering at corners.

He doesn't have any supernatural abilities, none of those talents he'd grown so accustomed to.

He doesn't need them to follow the path of most bloodshed to the throne room.

There, Not-Hux stands, cowering beside the Queen.

The Queen, whose face is deadly serious and who holds a Sundowner gun, a weapon meant for the slaughter of supernaturals.

The Queen, who steadies the gun and aims at Ren.

 


	11. Crisis Absolved—A New Preternatural

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to finish this fic ! It's rather different from my usual style of writing now, but I hope it's still enjoyable!

She just stands there, gun at the ready, lips pressed together thinly. She wears a plain gown, something that doesn't enhance her figure. The figure at her side, Not-Hux, shakes where he stands, bare feet against the floor. He looks like a frightened animal, hiding behind his Queen, wearing a shirt so low necked that his injured throat—now gauze free—is on full display.

If only it were Hux himself.

If only he hadn't gone to the Picklemen.

If only he hadn't been bit.

“Lord Ren,” the Queen herself says, sounding as if she is close to scolding the immortal-turned-mortal. “Your drone here has informed me of your improper behavior.” Not-Hux, at that, looks appropriately terrified, hiding behind the Queen as if she were his mother, so close to trembling.

“Don't listen to him,” Ren warns, taking a step forwards, hand reaching out in warning. “That's not Hux.”

She does not waver. Not at all.

But neither does she shoot.

“Your Majesty!” calls a familiar voice. Phasma runs into the chamber, dressed hastily and mismatched. She had changed out of her wolven form and into her human one, wearing a captain's coat and some odd pair of dark trousers, neither of which belong to her.

Phasma's hair sticks to her face, slick with sweat. “Don't shoot!” she says, deathly serious. “Don't shoot Ren!”

At this, Victoria stills, wetting her lips and letting her eyes drift from Ren to Phasma.

Behind her, Matthew stands, gloves lost.

Those poor, expensive things that Hux had been staring at so intently.

“How can you prove what you say?” the Queen asks, relaxing her grip, just slightly. Now, it is two advisors against one frightened looking man; Not-Hux's reliability falls drastically. When has the Queen doubted Phasma in serious situations? Not often at all.

“Let me touch him,” Matthew calls out.

“What?” Ren hisses, spinning around, staring crossly at the cavalier. Hux is _his—_ not Snoke's, not Matthew's.

And yet...

Matthew swallows, pushing back his glasses. “I'm... I'm soulless,” he admits awkwardly.

Ren's mouth falls open, gaping. “When did you find out, Mr Matthew?” he all but growls. This situation could have been absolved so much sooner had he spoken up!

“After we went to the Bureau,” Phasma answers for him, taking a protective step in front of Matthew, though he cannot truly be considered a cavalier any longer, not with his revealed soulless state.

The repulsiveness of preternaturals is not something easily talked about or easily explained. Hux would know more, Ren thinks, grieving for the loss.

But does the repulsiveness extend even to affect metanaturals?

That's remained an unexplored element.

Matthew's face is trained in a serious expression, dark, bushy brows furrowing in concentration.

The Queen herself sighs, but doesn't let her arms drop. “Mr Hux,” she says, turning the gun to point at him. “Do as they say.”

Not-Hux frowns, feigning fear.

Never has Ren wanted to throttle someone more.

(And, in all fairness, Ren had throttled quite a few, one Dopheld Mitaka quite high on the list of offenders.)

Queen Victoria trains her gun on Hux. “Go,” she orders, “to them.”

He takes a step, wavers, holds himself like something delicate, something broken. Something very not _Hux_.

Matthew smiles, approaches Not-Hux as well.

Not-Hux makes to run, dashing off, supernaturally quick, away from the soulless man.

“Oh no you don't!” Phasma cries out, falling into her wolf form, her stolen clothing ripping to reveal pale fur. She bounds after the quick metanatural, tackling him to the floor.

And he stays there, pinned, though he thrashes under her spectacularly.

Matthew approaches quickly, kneeling, shoes squeaking at the sudden movement.

The Queen herself follows, keeping her Sundowner gun poised to strike if someone were to attack her. “I'd like to see confirmation,” she says, gesturing with the deadly weapon. “Open his mouth.”

Matthew, being preternatural, could not do as asked.

But Ren, fully human for the first time in years, could.

He kneels beside Not-Hux's head, staring into strange eyes. With a gloved hand, he forces Not-Hux's mouth open, squeezing on either side of his jaw, revealing the three sets of fangs—short, almost as if they're hiding.

Victoria sighs, disappointed in the situation, tucking the gun away after replacing the safety.

“Well then,” she says instead, face returning to its impassive calm. “Carry on.”

Not-Hux struggles again, renewing with an intensity no one could quite understand, biting at Ren and Phasma, twisting and turning--

But it only takes one touch from Matthew, one mere moment of skin touching skin, for the body to fall limp, eyes rolling shut. Something between the Not-Hux and Ren seems to _snap_ , like the sharp snap of elastic against skin.

Ren's fangs return, a dull ache in his jaw.

He feels stronger too, stolen immortality returned to him.

Hux groans lowly, eyes rolling behind his lips, translucent lashes coming to rest against terribly pale cheek.

Ren kneels beside him, beside Matt, stroking Hux's temple with a scarred thumb. Lowly, he mumbles, “Is it over?”

As if to answer that very question, Hux's eyes flutter open, mouth opening to sigh quietly. His light eyes focus first on Phasma—then Matt and Ren, who crowd him so.

His brows furrow, clearly not understanding the situation at hand. “What... is going on here?” Hux mutters, eyes so very narrow, blinking at the harsh assault of light. He wrinkles his nose. “A costume party?” he mutters, looking with distaste upon the state of Phasma's—once borrowed, now ruined—clothing. Hux shuts his eyes, looking quite miserable. “How much did I drink?” he asks.

Phasma lets out a bark of laughter, slapping at her knee. “Oh Mr Hux,” she says breezily, “What a life you live!”

The Queen frowns, slowly approaching. “Mr Hux,” she says, holding herself steady, “You do not remember what happened?”

At hearing his Queen, Hux jolts to awareness, sitting up in a hurry, nearly smacking his head against Ren's own.

“Your Majesty!” he cries out, eye wide, mouth falling open. Hux collects himself, smoothing down his ruffled hair and looking on with distress at his state of dress. “What is...?” he trails off, tiredly.

Ren nudges him, bringing him into the embrace of his arms. “Go to sleep,” Ren murmurs, scooping him up, coming to stand.

“It can't be so simple as to end like that,” Queen Victoria mutters, lips thin and colorless. “Now that _King--”_ and how she says the word with such distaste!--”Snoke is no longer possessing our friend here, where will his soul go?”

It's a question to debate—a question that they would not know the answer to.

Hux grimaces, looking very nearly in pain.

“Snoke,” he mutters, bitter, almost. “He shouldn't have a body any longer. At least, not anything he could return to.”

At this, attention returns to the pale, drawn man cradled nearly obscenely in Ren's arms.

“Mr Hux,” says Matthew slowly, squeezing his own bare hand with a covered one. “Just what do you mean by that?”

“After biting me, Snoke's body fell to ash,” Hux says, rather callously, uncaring of the women of quality—one of them being the Queen of England herself!--and their finer sensibilities. (Though, as it should be said, Phasma had never been one to swoon at the hint of gore.)

Ren shudders at that, eyes dark and far away.

Perhaps, just perhaps, the mystery and allure of the unknown metanaturals wouldn't last, now that London had found herself an absolutely evil one.

But in the meantime, things must continue as they always had.

The Queen shakes her head, shaking off the oddness that the day held. “Well,” Victoria says, back to her proper and untouched self. “Mr Shepherd, I do not know of your plans regarding your employment, but if you'd like to join my council, you are free to join as a soulless advisor. Seems we need one.” If she had been anyone else, Ren would have said that she rolled her eyes. “Desperately.”

Matthew hums, rather pleasantly—absentmindedly, if one were to ask Hux. “No thanks,” he finally settles on. “I'm good.”

The Queen blinks, not trusting her ears. “Excuse me?” she says.

He nods, confident in what he's said. “Yeah. I'm content with my job with the werewolf pack,” Matthew says, smiling, almost kindly. “Sorry, you'll need to find someone else.”

Queen Victoria sighs, long sufferingly.

It seems her trials and tribulations will never truly be over.

*

Matthew Shepherd, as he had said, truly enjoyed working with the London werewolf pack. He technically serves as a cavalier, though he'll never be able to become a werewolf.

He doesn't seem to mind.

Not when he is given time to pay visits to Lord Ren's house, eager to meet with one of the residents, sweaty palm gripping a bouquet of flowers tightly.

Captain Phasma, for the most part, does not mind her moony little preternatural. Rather, it gives her quite the political edge, even though he hadn't agreed to work for the Queen and the country.

If some need for a preternatural arose, then Phasma herself would be the one Queen Victoria would run to.

And what a splendid sight that would surely make!

Rey, having tinkered with several new Obstructors in secret, nervous while waiting, is terribly disappointed to hear that she'd missed all the great chaos! “I've lost my only chance to study a metanatural!” she had sobbed to Phasma, who only smiled gently.

The Alpha wolf, maybe perhaps understanding her soulless cavalier too much, offers words of comfort that do little to soothe the distraught heart of a scientist and engineer.

Poe, despire living through a minor scandal of his being seen with an unknown young lady—Hux, and his dreadful disguise from before--is happy with his job, having received a gift.

An orange and white mechanical horse.

One of a kind, Ren had told him. Rey had been the one to fiddle with its parts, both inside and out.

“I'll call it BeeBee the Eighth,” he had announced immediately, smile so bright and charming that neither cousin could say a word against the horse's name!

(Besides, Poe would protest, BeeBee liked its name too!)

Finn, much too kind for his own good, had agreed at what a good name it was for the mechanical. BeeBee, not overly fond of anyone but Poe just yet, had snorted and accepted the praise for its name.

Perhaps his heart is too charmed to say no to any of Poe's silly names.

(Besides, Poe had named the flesh and blood horses worse! Carrot and Pumpkin were the first to spring to mind.)

Techie, now a member of Lord Ren's household, lives rather relaxed, having no major responsibilities that require his falsifying of status. Instead, he fiddles with parts—so graciously donated by Rey—and fiddles with the back garden.

Still, Techie prefers to wear his overlarge and yellow sweater, keeping out the chill—even when there isn't one.

He brightens up the house, Lord Ren would be the first to admit, depositing vases filled with lovely flowers throughout the house, to dear Millicent's extreme displeasure. She seems to take offense at the vivid colors. Who wouldn't? After so long, living only with the rather monochrome-loving Ren...

Of all those in his social group, Ren would have to say that Hux had been affected by the _event_ , as he called it _,_ the strangest.

It wouldn't be too terribly odd if Hux had reacted the strongest.

He, after all, had had his body _stolen_ away from his soul for a fair amount of time.

Ren would expect outrage or grief or some strong negative emotions emitting from his dear drone.

Armitage Hux—red haired, bastard, and vampire drone—has never quite _slept_ so much.

He lies in the center of Ren's overlarge bed, piles of blankets layered on top of his body. He curls himself nearly to a ball, a clenched fist close to his head. Ren brushes Hux's hair back, tucking stray strands behind his ear.

“I'm awake,” Hux informs him.

Ren arches a brow at the display of stubbornness. “Really? Doesn't look like it,” Ren jabs.

Hux rolls his eyes, shutting them once more, drifting off into some uneasy sleep.

With one crisis adverted, they have time to rest and recover.

Ren trails a grey hand across the smoothness of Hux's cheek, too lost in thought, too entangled in emotions.

Some of them, he thinks, need much more rest than others.

For now, London is safe.

Ren leans down, meaning to press a kiss to the corner of Hux's lips.

Hux moves them, allowing their lips to meet much more fully.

Ren pulls away, slightly, catching a wry look from Hux—just before the man pulls him back down for another well earned kiss.

 

**Author's Note:**

> edit:  
> here's a moodboard for the fic!!
> 
> http://gaygalaxyguy.tumblr.com/post/151167903597/parasols-pleasantries-armitage-hux-labors-under


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